Sins Of The Father
by Mardy Lass
Summary: Two brothers and their father become a case for Sam and Dean. But hunting these things and saving these people may bring more emotional baggage than even these two Unshed Man-Tear Wranglers can handle. Can Dean control his roving eye? Sam his Huff Quota?
1. Chapter 1

_**Author's Note:**_

_Written quite a while ago, but that Key thing got in the way…_

_This isn't so much an off-the-waller as an out-the-windower. If you see what I mean..._

_Rated T for language and situations. Posted first at SPNville dot net._

* * *

**ONE**

Sam came out of the motel bathroom, a decidedly huffy look on his face. While this was neither unusual nor cause for alarm in the general order of things, it never failed to make Dean curious.

"Whut?" he asked, finishing lacing his last boot and letting his foot drop to the floor. He watched Sam as he carried his assorted toiletries to his duffle, pushing everything in.

"Forgot to charge my shaver, and this room doesn't seem to have sockets that work," he grumped. "Just got done as it went flat."

"You're lucky then," Dean said pleasantly, getting off the bed and picking up his toiletries bag, heading for the open bathroom door, "that you're too much of a girl to have to shave every day."

"Jerk," Sam muttered to himself, mostly under his breath. Dean smirked as he put his bag down on the bathroom counter, pulling out assorted toothbrushes and shavers. "So are we doing this Seth County thing?" Sam called.

"What Seth County thing?" Dean asked, smearing a generous amount of toothpaste on the brush and jamming it in mouth, scrubbing away.

"The two deaths? I did explain to you last night. Well, I tried, but I think you just passed out from another late-night Nurple shift and I'd be surprised—"

"The guy with the… thing, right?" Dean interrupted, his words suitably slurred by bubbles caused by energetic toothpaste application. "And the… the other guy with the… the other thing?" He spat out a bucket-load of unwanted and unloved Colgate, picking up the tooth mug and filling it with water.

"Yeah, that's the one," Sam said brightly. "Not to be confused with that _other_ guy, who had that _other_ thing," he continued, with the amount of sarcasm he usually saved for a rainy day.

"Aw come on Sam, we had one night off. Just one. Don't start on me. You're just pissed cos no-one bought _you_ drinks," Dean smiled, lifting the mug and rinsing his mouth out. He closed one eye to aim and fired the stream of water at the plughole. He was only slightly off.

"You won at darts!"

"Exactly," Dean sniffed, putting the mug down.

He picked up the towel and pressed it to his chin firmly. He dropped the towel to the counter top, leaning toward the mirror and snapping his teeth together loudly a few times. He scrutinised his pearly-white arsenal for a moment, running his tongue over the foremost teeth appreciatively before turning to look at Sam through the open door.

"I won money, _and_ I got all my drinks for free. Is there any other way to spend an evening?"

"I'm surprised you can't answer that one yourself," Sam quipped.

"Yeah well. Not my fault there were like three guys to every girl in that place. Trust you to pick the only place we're outnumbered," he said off-hand, looking back to the counter top. He pulled out his shaver, plugging it in and flicking the power button.

"Not my fault you're going deaf in your old age. Or just have no short-term memory," Sam pointed out, wiggling a long finger at the kaput power socket.

Dean flicked the shaver on and off a few more times, then aimed a grimace at it that would have turned milk sour. He pulled the plug out again. He switched it over to batteries and found it still deader than a Wendigo with flaming indigestion.

"Super," he tutted, winding up the power cord and pushing it back in his bag. He leaned again toward the mirror, scrubbing at the short bristles over his chin thoughtfully.

"Dude, no-one's going to notice," Sam chided impatiently. "It's the wrong colour."

"True," Dean mused. "Didn't do it yesterday either, though."

"Does it matter?"

"'Spose not," he shrugged, zipping up his bag and walking out of the bathroom. He pushed it into his duffle and pulled it closed. "Ok then, we done?"

"Ten minutes ago," Sam said pointedly.

"Ok cub-scout, keep your hair on," Dean smiled, swinging his bag onto his shoulder and making for the door. Sam just followed, shaking his head.

* * *

The rear-view mirror was a beautiful vortex of orange, pink and purple swirls, heralding the start of another spectacular sunset. Had it known that two young sons of Winchester had completely failed to notice its majesty and awe-inspiring cohesion of colour and light, it may have been a tad put out. However, just as the boys failed to mark the passing of an incredible sunset, so the sunset failed to mark the significance of Dean swinging the Impala into the parking lot of a small but busy hotel. As he killed the engine and turned to his left, he looked up at all the curtains closed over the room windows.

"So why are we here?" he asked curiously.

"Unexplained suicides," Sam replied neatly, "two of."

"So?"

"So we also have reports of spirit sightings," Sam smiled. "I'm thinking they didn't jump, they were pushed."

"Hmm," Dean grunted, apparently absorbed in studying the hotel facade. "First one?"

"Samuel Petrie," Sam supplied, looking at his notes in his lap. "Took a dive from the top floor. Thirty-nine, with a wife and two small kids in the next state. Apparently no problems."

"Other than meeting the sidewalk not as Nature intended," Dean observed, squeaking the door open and climbing out.

Sam leaned over to the back seat, pushing his notebook into his duffle. He lifted it over the seat and got out of his side, closing the door quietly.

"And the second one?" Dean asked him, turning back through the door to fetch his duffle too.

"Ah… Michael Brown," he said. "Also apparently jumped from the top floor. Twenty-three, single, was just staying here cos he was in town for a convention."

"A convention?" Dean grimaced with a truck-load of palpable distaste. "Like fan-worship groupie crap?"

"Like… hang on," Sam said, pulling the notebook from his bag again. He read quickly, walking round the car to catch up with his brother as he walked toward the reception doors. "Dentist's assistant – nurse. Dental nurse."

"He was a nurse?" Dean blinked.

"Yeah. A pretty good one, or his boss would _not_ have sent him on this all-expenses-paid trip."

"Male nurses," Dean snorted as he walked in through the door. "Sounds like a lame-ass attempt to get into the nurses' locker room to me."

Sam pushed at him in slight annoyance as they walked into a nicely carpeted lobby. It couldn't have been more than a hundred foot square, but it was adorned with enough pot plants and tasteful yet cheerful paintings to re-adjust even Dean's grumpiness from an eight-hour car journey.

"Good evening to you," said a rather upbeat lady at the desk. Built on the generous side, she perked at the very sight of them. Her long brown hair was pulled into a friendly but professional bun, her small black-rimmed glasses making her seem more cheeky than austere. She appeared to be in her late-thirties. "And how are you two gents?"

"Groovin' on the inside, thanks for askin'," Dean said genially, stopping at the counter and dropping his duffle at his feet in a way that told a long, detailed tale of weariness. Sam stopped behind him, putting the notebook away and looking around. He felt himself starting to relax, despite the history of the place.

"Can I interest you in a room?" she beamed.

"You certainly can," Dean replied gratefully. "Miss…?"

"Backet," she smiled. "But please, call me Lucy."

"If you insist, Lucy," he smiled.

"And what kind of room would you two fine gents be after?" she asked knowingly. "I have doubles, specials, or the luxury suite."

"Oooh, well, never could resist a bit of luxury," Dean admitted, rubbing his hands together.

"Luxury it is, then," she winked, turning to the computer on the side of the desk. She tapped away, searching quickly.

"Backet… As in The Backet Hotel? So this your place, then?" Dean asked, effecting surprise.

"It sure is. I've been running this place for ten years, now."

"That's impressive," Dean fished.

"Certainly is. It's not always been easy," she admitted, a small shadow passing over her face.

"Why's that?" Dean asked politely, a small smile covering the need to know. She paused in her computer work, looking at him slowly. She looked at Sam, then back at Dean.

"You… haven't heard of this place?" she asked, apparently a little surprised.

"Uhh…" Dean turned and looked at Sam. He shook his head with his usual Oscar-winning portrayal of _Innocence In The Face Of Interrogatives_, and Dean looked back at her. "Can't say we have. As a matter of fact, we've been on the road for a while, state-to-state, and this was just the best-looking place to park the car for a spell," he nodded pleasantly.

"Oh, well, lucky us," she said, smiling again. "Don't go listening to the local gossip."

"What do we have to ignore?" Sam asked politely, and she looked at him.

"Well they'll tell you we have ghosts here," she said off-hand. "Of course it's rubbish," she added loudly. Dean blinked.

"Ghosts?" he pressed. "Really?"

"Of course not," she replied, again a little loudly. "We don't believe in such things."

Dean turned slightly to catch Sam with a look side-on.

Sam's eyes decided they'd had enough of being told what to do by a brain busy mulling over a million things at once. Multi-tasking was one thing, but simply taking repetitive orders for dull manoeuvres was something else. His eyes wanted a change, something different; they wanted freedom from tyranny, independent movement, self-reliance. They took the executive decision to bypass the orders from Sam's brain and do their own thing as only they knew how.

They rolled all by themselves.

"Oh!" Lucy tutted. The boys looked back at her.

"That computer attacking you over there?" Dean teased.

"Just clumsy is all," she managed, bending behind the desk and picking up her fallen pen. "Anyway, we try hard to provide the best night's sleep we can round here."

She passed over a simple form that asked for names and contact numbers of the guests. Dean pulled it toward him as she handed him the pen.

"I'm sure you do," Sam put in easily. He waited until she was not looking at him. He nudged his brother, sending him an obvious '_it's not working_' frown. "Can I ask a question, though?" he added to Lucy.

"Of course," she smiled. Sam looked back at Dean, who gestured to her slightly with his head.

"Now you mention it… The name of this place does sound familiar. I was reading the paper as we drove in, and it mentioned some people had died around here… Was it here?" Sam said quietly, leaning on the counter.

She paled and looked at her computer quickly as Dean paused in his writing and snapped his fingers.

"You know, that's right," he said, as if surprised at himself. "I heard someone got gank— er, died just recently," he amended quickly.

"We've had some bad luck, yes," she managed. "But nothing like the newspaper makes up." She refused to look at him, keeping her face on the computer booking screen. "It was a man - poor thing. Threw himself clean off the roof," she admitted quietly. "We still don't know why he did it. But please, rest assured that this is by no means a dangerous hotel," she added with a haste that would have put Dean checking the depth of a scratch in the Impala's paintwork to shame.

"I'm sure it's nothing of the kind," Dean smiled generously, and she looked up at him for a moment. He simply smiled and finished entering the information on the card.

"Well, anyway. You have our only luxury room, on the twenty-fifth floor, gentlemen," she said with some recovered cheer. "Just two floors down from the top, and actually, our biggest and grandest room. I suppose you could call it the penthouse."

"Sounds like my kinda place," Dean grinned, pulling out his wallet and finding a credit card. He slid it and the form back to her across the desk. She scanned them quickly before picking up the credit card and getting busy with the processing machine.

"Breakfast is between six and nine, Mr Scott, and if you want to wander round this lovely town, the maid can give your room a spritz while you're out. Just leave the card on the outside of the door."

"Thank you very much," Dean replied, taking the credit card slip she passed him and signing it fluidly.

"My husband would have been pleased," she said suddenly, and Dean looked up as he slid the slip back to her.

"Oh?"

"Well, we've never had men like yourselves stay here before," she grinned. "And you'll do wonders for our image."

"Right," Dean said slowly, clearly confused. She just winked at him, further cementing his bemusement. "So…"

"Oh, I'm sorry." She rang a bell on the counter and a slight looking lad appeared, presumably just old enough to work. "Patrick," she said smartly. "Take these nice men up to the luxury suite, please."

"Yes Mom – ah, Ms Backet," he said quickly. Dean nodded to her before casting Sam a glance. They picked up their duffles and followed the frail young man to the lifts.

* * *

"Here we are, sirs," Patrick said politely.

"Thanks," Sam said, nodding to him as Patrick unlocked the door for him and handed him the keycard. "Uh, how old are you?" he added politely.

"Fifteen, sir. Anything else I can get you, sir?"

Dean walked past them and into the room, smiling at the neat, clean white walls. He took in the small tasteful paintings framed at moderate expense and the smell of clean linen and pristine carpets. Then his face dropped in befuddlement.

"Dude, we're a bed short," he announced, confused. He turned to look at Sam, still in the doorway. Sam looked quite a way down at Patrick.

"Does the luxury room not come with luxury _beds_?" he asked politely.

Patrick's mouth worked for a long second, but nothing came out.

Dean, oblivious, walked over to the overly-large yet unique bed, dropping his duffle on it and stretching his arms out in front of him.

"Well, I got me a huge bunk, looks like you're sleeping on the floor, man," he grinned, bouncing down on the bed and letting himself fall over onto his back. He sighed in a rather too-contented fashion.

Sam looked back at Patrick. "Is there any way to change the room?" he asked cheerfully. "Normally we take two beds."

"Oh, er, sorry – very sorry sir," he stumbled quickly, and Sam couldn't help it; he huffed.

"Alright, calm down. It's no big deal," he said, letting his weariness show. "You can go, and we'll sort this out in the morning."

"Thank you sir," he squeaked, and turned and ran.

Sam walked into the room, closing the door tiredly. He leaned back on it, finding his brother already dosing on his back. He shook his head slowly, looking round and finding a rather large ornate sofa anyway.

"Looks like I'm taking the sofa," he said to himself. He dropped his duffle by the side of the generously-sized piece of furniture, looking back at Dean. "Dude!" he called over.

"Hmm."

"I'm taking the sofa."

"Hmm."

"And all of your blankets."

"Hmm."

"And I'm selling the Impala for a MacBook Air," he added, more loudly.

"Hmm," Dean managed.

Sam sighed, then began to peel his jacket off.


	2. Chapter 2

**TWO**

Sam opened an eye at the slight hissing sound. For a long moment he wasn't sure what it was – then suddenly it all became clear.

_"Ba-da da-na-na-na-na'l-la! Ba-da da-na-na-na-na'l-la! Greased and slicked down fine, groovy leather trim, I like the way you hold the road, mama it ain't no sin! Talkin' bout love - talkin' bout love - talkin' bout… Trouble-free transmission, helps your oil flow, mama let me pump your gas, mama let me do it all! Talkin' bout love - talkin' bout love - talkin' bout love…"_

Dean's husky voice from the large en-suite bathroom confirmed Sam's worst suspicions: One, it was already morning, and two, something had put his showering older brother in a good enough mood to sing as loudly as he wanted from behind the closed door.

Sam dragged in a huge lungful and gave a monumental huff – his first of the day – and pulled the blankets over his shoulder more warmly.

_"Dig that heavy metal underneath your hood, baby, I could work all night, believe I've got the perfect tools… Ba-da da-na-na-na-na'l-la! Ba-da da-na-na-na-na'l-la! Come to me for service every hundred miles, baby, let me check your points, fix your overdrive!"_

Dean's voice continued as if no-one else existed, and Sam turned onto his side on the sofa, folding his pillow round his ears tightly. But neither peace nor sleep were his to enjoy. As he closed his eyes someone knocked firmly on the main door to the room.

"Mr Scott?" said a female voice.

Sam stalled a second huff – he had a quota to keep to, after all – and climbed off the sofa, going to the door and opening it quickly.

"Yeah," he managed, rubbing an eye and yawning.

"Oh, I'm sorry," said Lucy, eyeing his rumpled t-shirt and matching hair. "I hope I didn't just wake you."

"Not really," he admitted, putting a hand to his trousers to pull them up slightly. "Something wrong?"

"Oh, well… Patrick said you weren't happy with the room," she said, biting her lip and appearing quite nervous. "Is there anything I should know about?"

"It's – well, it's a nice room, Ms Backet—"

"Lucy, please."

"Lucy. But we need another bed," he smiled politely. She stared, then slapped a hand over her mouth.

"Oh! My! I am so sorry," she gasped. "I just thought – different surnames on the booking-in slip, and… Oh dear me, I'm so sorry," she gabbled.

Sam smiled, putting his hands up in a bemused show of innocence. He was aware of a restrained muttering of music and the brief sensation of dissipating steam, as he heard Dean's feet on the carpet behind him. He ignored him.

"Really, don't worry about it," he said soothingly. "We were just wondering if there was any way we could—"

"Hey Ms Backet," the older brother interrupted cheerfully from behind Sam.

Her mouth appeared unhinged for a moment, her eyes opening just a little wider. She swallowed and nodded.

"Lucy, please," she said, her smile looking slightly forced, slightly desperate.

Sam turned to find Dean standing in just his jeans, rubbing his hair with a towel. Sam's eyes, buoyed by their stellar independent success the day before, again decided all by themselves that a roll was in order. They managed a spectacular ocular 360 that went completely unnoticed by everyone and everything except Sam's sub-conscious. He turned back to the hotel owner.

"So anyway, we were wondering if we could perhaps change the room?" he ventured, watching Lucy's gaze continue to hover just slightly to the right of his shoulder as if he weren't even there.

"If you like," she responded automatically.

"Oh hey, I have a question," Dean said suddenly, dropping the towel to the bed and snatching up a clean t-shirt. He carried it over in his hand, Sam moving to one side for him. The younger sibling leaned back against the doorjamb, folding his arms.

"Anything," Lucy smiled at Dean, her speech a little slow.

Dean blinked at her and Sam recognised his brother's attempt to conceal confusion. Dean shook his head briskly as if to wipe something from his active mind. "It's just that I can't get the electrical socket in the bathroom to work," he admitted.

"It's probably nothing – he's not very bright," Sam put in from above. Lucy looked at him, then back at Dean.

"No, no, these places have a funny connection," she said, "you'd best let me have a look at it."

Dean stood back to let her in. She passed between the brothers and walked off toward the bathroom. Dean swung the t-shirt to lie over his shoulder, following her to the smaller room. Sam closed the main door and walked back to his sofa, bouncing back onto it with enthusiasm and snatching the blanket up over him. He stretched out and squirmed and wriggled until he was comfortable, an unwilling party to the exchange going on in the bathroom.

"Easy," Lucy was saying, pushing the power plug into the wall. Dean folded his arms, something that appeared to make it hard for Lucy to look anywhere but the mirror at a fortuitous angle in front of her.

"Well I keep pushing it in, but then it jumps right back out again. I'm not exactly Einstein but I've done it enough times to know I'm getting it in right. Is it your socket or my plug?" he asked innocently.

She looked round at him, apparently choosing her words carefully.

"It seems to be ok now, Mr Scott," she said, biting her lower lip.

"Ronald, please," he smiled.

"You don't look like a Ronald," she ventured.

Sam, under his blanket, decided to Hell with pacing himself as far as his Huff Quota went, and let fly with another monumental _harrumph_ that could definitely be heard all the way from the bathroom. '_Bon_' he mouthed silently to himself.

"Bon, then," Dean smiled at Lucy. She looked back at the plugged-in shaver deliberately.

"Looks like it's fine," she said stiffly, and he pushed himself off the doorjamb and walked out. She followed, pausing to look at Sam before reaching the main door again. "I am sorry about the mix-up with the room, Mr Johnson," she said, and Sam opened his eyes suddenly, sitting up. "I tell you what, why don't I send you both up some breakfast and then see about changing your room."

Sam eyes darted from her to Dean while he appeared to fight to keep a look of complete anger from his face. He twisted his face into a polite smile and looked back at Lucy.

"Thanks," he managed politely, if somewhat edgily.

She nodded and looked at Dean once before sighing and going to the door. She opened it up and closed it quickly behind her.

"Mr _Johnson_?" Sam prompted immediately, deciding there was no way in or out of Hell that he was going to finish his lie-in this morning.

"Don't get your panties in a twist, Mr Johnson," Dean replied dismissively, walking back into the bathroom. He found the power cord and plug lying on the counter and huffed, picking it up and pushing it back into the socket.

"Mr Johnson? As in _Brian_ Johnson? I'm not being Brian Johnson!" Sam cried petulantly, pulling back his blanket to stand.

"Sounds like an ordinary name to me," Dean commented, flicking the power on the shaver. The shaver sputtered and stopped immediately, the plug popping out of the socket abruptly. He tutted irritably.

"But it's not, _is it_?" Sam demanded. "I am _not_ being Brian Johnson!"

"Dude, don't be such a girl," Dean chided, plugging the shaver in again.

"I am not being Brian Johnson! Not now, not ever," Sam huffed indignantly, walking to the bathroom door with his hands firmly wedged on his hips.

"You sure about that?" Dean asked, pushing the shaver power button. "Cos you sound like him right now."

The shaver ran for a half-second before the power again appeared to flee the appliance and the plug disengaged itself from the wall. Dean dropped the item to the counter, frustrated. He put his knuckles to the counter top, leaning his weight on them and staring at the shaver, trying to think of a suitable swear word.

"Asshole!" Sam blurted, and Dean jumped slightly before looking at him.

"Dude, it's a shaver, I don't think it has an-"

"Not the shaver, _you_! You're an _asshole_!" Sam cried angrily.

"You want to explain that?" he demanded with a biting harshness that did nothing to weaken Sam's own anger.

"Don't be a jerk," Sam snapped. "Brian Johnson took over lead vocals for AC/DC – after Bon Scott died. Not hard to work out, _is it_?"

"Woah, I'm impressed," Dean blinked, surprise nudging anger neatly aside. "I honestly didn't think—"

"No! You didn't," Sam countered, then leaned over and slapped the plug back into the wall. "Just… just get ready so we can start hunting down these ghost things."

He turned and walked off. Dean watched him for a long second, then let his gaze wander down to the bathroom counter. He looked up, caught sight of his own eyes, and looked away smartly. He picked up the shaver and turned it on. It ran for a whole three seconds, during which he simply watched it, his mind on other things. Then it stopped sharply as the plug again leapt out of the wall.

"Alright, I can take a hint!" he hissed, wrapping the cord round the shaver and bundling it all back in his small zip-up bag.

"Dude, is it too much to ask that you stay out of my bag?" Sam called from the main room.

"I ain't touched your bag, smartass," Dean snapped, walking out and heading for the bed.

"Oh yeah?" Sam retorted. "So why are all my shirts inside out? And why is there now a Magic—"

Dean stepped on something small and round and let out a startled bark of outrage, dropping his toiletries bag and clutching at his foot in pain.

"Goddamn it, Sammy!" he growled. "What are you, five? Do you have to leave your shit all over the floor for me to step on?"

"All my 'shit' is in my bag – the one you rifled through while I was asleep," he said pointedly.

Dean hopped to the bed, his left foot still grasped tightly in his hands. He let himself sit heavily and lifted his foot in his hands, tipping it up to him to see.

"I did _not_ go through your friggin' bag! And if all your shit's in there, then what's this?" he demanded, yanking something from his foot. "A mapping pin – a goddamn mapping pin! And who carries the stationery? The files and folders geek – oh, that would be _you_," he snapped, holding up the small yet very sharp pin.

"What the hell?" Sam asked, his face creasing in thought. "The box is still shut, look," he added, turning back to his duffle.

"You know what? Forget it," Dean groused. "Just… get showered and ready to go, Sammy. I'm starting to dread breakfast."

"Yeah, good idea," Sam muttered suspiciously. He picked up a selection of clothes and towels, going into the bathroom and closing the door.

Dean let himself flop back on the bed, putting his hands behind his head and staring at the ceiling intently. He heard the shower start up and let his mind wander. It stumbled over Brian Johnson and staggered, trying to catch its balance, but then went completely arse over tit as Bon Scott reared his dead head.

Dean sighed and let his mind find its feet before veering sharply away from the whole mess of identities, deals and angsty Sam. Instead he thought about the two men who had jumped from the very top floor of the hotel.

He let his eyes close for a second, and was just wondering how long breakfast was going to be when he felt a nudge at his shoulder.

"Alright Sammy, I'm—" He opened his eyes and looked around.

The shower was still going, the room still empty save him. He sat up, putting a hand to his shoulder and rubbing slightly where he had most definitely felt someone's hand.

He got up and went to his duffle, pulling out the EMF meter and turning it on.

It spiked straight away, the needle slamming into the far reaches of maximum before it suddenly dropped and went dead. Dean looked up and around, staring around the room.

Sam opened the door and came out, finding his brother still standing in only a pair of ripped jeans, his hair still wet but towelled and left in amusing patterns, his left hand out holding the EMF meter and his face one of complete confusion.

"The two guys died _outside_," Sam pointed out, going to his sofa and picking up the blankets.

"No… Something touched me," Dean asserted, waving the meter around. It refused to register anything further and he tutted, turning it off.

"Yeah, you know what? Something touched _me_, in the shower," Sam said brightly.

"Seriously?" Dean asked slowly.

"Yeah! It's called _water_, Dean! Now get dressed so we can get asking about these 'ghosts' that people say are in this hotel."

"Funny," Dean muttered, bending over the bed to pick up his clean t-shirt. "Where do we start?"

"I'd say… library," he said deliberately.

"Ah. I'd say… ladies' coffee morning," Dean replied brightly, ringing the t-shirt in his hands to make a circle before popping it over his head.

"How do you know there's a coffee morning?"

"It was on the sign in the lobby last night, right next to the check-in desk," he replied, pre-occupied by the cotton shirt trying to twist itself the wrong way round him as he fought to get it straight.

"Dude…" Sam began, then realised he may as well try and keep Scooby Doo from a seventeen-storey snack. His shoulders sagged and he gave up. "Forget it. You go do ladies' morning. I'm going to—. Don't you think that t-shirt might be just a little inappropriate?" he interrupted himself.

Dean managed to get the t-shirt sat straight and looked down at it. Olive green and nicely fitted, it had the words '_Bite, lick or suck… it's all good_' on the front in large white cursive letters.

"What?" Dean asked innocently. "You remember that thing we were doing in Fort Worth? And that very lovely marketing lady named Jenny at the Oreos sales convention? She gave it me."

"Oreos?" Sam prompted, his eyebrows scrambling up under his waves of fringe.

"Yeah. Why, what did you think it was about?" Dean smiled maliciously, turning so Sam could see the back. It did indeed sport a large picture of two Oreos, one chocolate, one half chocolate and half peanut butter.

"Whatever. What exactly are you planning to do at a ladies' coffee morning? –And don't say 'ladies'," he added quickly.

"Gossip, local history, the works," Dean winked, walking over and retrieving his toiletries bag from where he had dropped it on the carpet. He fished out his tub of wax and went back into the bathroom.

"Fine. I'm going to cancel breakfast and get to the library. Call me if you get anything," Sam called, heading for the room door.

"Oooh yeah," Dean smiled to himself, rubbing the wax between his fingers before attacking his hair with enthusiasm.


	3. Chapter 3

**THREE**

Sam leaned back in the chair, stretched his back and arms, and then sat up a little straighter. He rubbed his eyes and looked again at the microfiche of various newspapers. He pulled his phone from his pocket, finding Dean's speed-dial and calling.

It seemed to ring for a long time before the line clicked.

"Yeah," Dean answered irritably.

"Dean? I found our ghosts," Sam said quietly.

"That's amazing, Sam," Dean managed, annoyed. "Give me ten minutes."

"Dean?"

"Make that twenty." There was a female shriek and a giggle, and the sound of material on the mouthpiece. "Actually? Sam? I'll call you back."

The line went dead. Sam closed his eyes, shook his head, and put the Blackberry back in his pocket. He cleared his mind of jealous thoughts, bringing all his notes together and getting up to go. He spotted Lucy Backet entering the library and a thought struck him.

He made his way over slowly, crossing her path deliberately.

"Oh, Mr Johnson," she said loudly, and he paused, as if surprised, turning to see her clearly.

"Ms Backet," he smiled, and she waved at him.

"Please – it's Lucy," she smiled, lowering her voice. "Doing some reading?"

"A little," he nodded. "And you? Here to find tax return forms?" he joked.

"Oh I wish I could handle all that stuff," she admitted. "My husband used to do it, before he… passed away. Now I have to pay an accountant to do it."

"I'm sorry to hear about your husband," Sam said, letting his face take on a solemn look. "Perhaps I could help you with some tax forms. I'm pretty good at those," he added brightly.

"Really? Well, I'd hate to impose on a fee-paying guest. Anyway, I'm just here to collect some books," she said, giving a friendly if nervous giggle.

"Spooky, I was just here to find some good ones," he smiled.

"Well perhaps you could help me," she shrugged.

"Perhaps I could," he nodded with a large, friendly grin, following her to the services desk.

"Oh you know what, I still haven't moved you to a proper room, have I?" she asked suddenly, putting a hand over her mouth and looking mortified.

"It's no bother," Sam said easily.

"Oh but it is – where is my brain these days?" she asked sadly. "Look, I'm sorry I haven't done it. I swear I had it on a Post-It note to do right this morning, but…" She trailed off, then her face cleared. "It must have fallen off the computer… the note wasn't there this morning… How strange."

"Really, it's fine," he said politely. "Actually, I'm kinda liking the room. It's… interesting," he admitted.

"Really?" she asked suspiciously. "Seen anything in there, have you?" she added airily, but Sam wasn't fooled.

"Like what?" he smiled.

"Oh… nothing," she said lightly. "Anyway, books."

"Books," he nodded, following her on.

* * *

Sam walked out of the lift and looked at his watch, glad he'd stopped to eat in town as it was already inching up to four in the afternoon. He walked to the hotel room door and slotted his keycard in. But the light lit up red, not green, and he was denied entry.

"What the—." He tried again and then wiggled the handle.

"Woah woah woah! Wait!" Dean called from inside, and Sam stood back from the door, confused. It opened a crack and Dean's eyes appeared through the gap, slightly sideways.

"What are you doing, man?" Sam asked, about to push the door open.

"Woah – slow your roll, big fella," Dean said quickly, and Sam had a really bad feeling. "Look – I'm just kinda checking a few facts, corroborating stories, that kind of thing, so—"

"You mean you've got one of the girls from ladies' morning in there?"

"She's helping me with some, um, fact-checking," Dean nodded innocently. Sideways.

Sam's peripheral vision suddenly registered his brother's bare shoulder some way underneath his mischievous green eyes and he took a hasty step back from the door.

"I am so glad I did not open that door," he breathed to himself, then looked at Dean again. "Look, shout me when she's finished dotting your 'i's and crossing your 't's," he added snidely.

"Roger that," Dean nodded quickly, and the door closed smartly.

Sam threw his hands up in the air and walked back to the lifts.

* * *

After two hours of coffee and newspapers, Sam spotted Dean sauntering into the hotel restaurant and tipped a hand at him. He wove his way through the few tables, plonking himself opposite Sam and pulling his chair up. He rested his arms on the table, clasping his hands together and looking at the younger Winchester.

"So get this," he said seriously. "The ghosts that Lucy Backet says don't exist, _do_ exist."

"I know," Sam said lightly, but Dean seemed to be on a roll and incapable of hearing his responses.

"And it's two boys, around seven and nine, who died in this very hotel – in _our_ hotel room – in 1986," Dean added.

"I know," Sam shrugged, apparently to himself.

"But someone or something is coming back to gank other people who stay on the top floor – it's just been those two guys, right? Both from the one room on the top floor? And please don't say you think it's the boys," he added heavily.

"Probably is," Sam said cheerfully.

"It's gotta be something else," Dean added decisively, sitting back and attracting the attention of the waiter.

"I don't think so," Sam offered, apparently to no-one.

"Sir?" the waiter asked Dean.

"Oh, er… a beer, please."

"May I remind Sir that it is long-sleeved shirts in the dining room?" the man asked politely.

Dean looked down at his jeans and simple t-shirt, putting a hand down self-consciously to pull the front straight.

"May I remind you that I hold the Mastercard?" he replied, matching the man's politeness. He added a wide smile and the waiter inclined his head.

"We appear to have reminded each other. Would you care for food with your beer, sir?" he smiled.

"I would. The biggest steak you got."

"That would be… the ten ounce sirloin, sir."

"That would be great," Dean nodded, and the man walked away again.

"Hello," Sam said clearly, and Dean looked at him. "Remember me? The trusty sidekick geekboy? Well guess what I did all afternoon?"

"Geek stuff?" Dean hazarded.

"I found some ghosts. And then I ran into Lucy Backet. And then I got the _real_ story," he said, in his best patronising voice.

"Oh cool. You want to hear what I did all afternoon?" Dean asked with devilish enthusiasm, a decidedly wicked grin on his face.

"For the love of God, no," Sam said flatly, ice-cold adversity to any kind of amusement twisting his features into rumpled disapproval.

"Ok, come on then," Dean sighed, turning more serious. "What did you find?"

"First of all, the two boys – James and Martin Menchelli, if you must know – were sons of the previous owner before Lucy and her husband, now deceased, bought this place."

"Deceased?"

"Don't interrupt," Sam replied smartly, and while Dean's mouth curved down in surprised offence, he said nothing more. "The two boys died in 1986, of complications from pneumonia. Their father, Mister Andrew Menchelli, took it badly and the place was shut for a year. According–"

"Angela says he kept the boys' bodies in their room – our hotel room – for months after they died. Then they had to be moved, cos well, they stank the place out," Dean grinned suddenly, with almost perverse enjoyment.

"Excuse me? Angela?" Sam demanded.

"The red-head earlier. From coffee morning," Dean smiled innocently. Sam shook his head.

"Whatever. Anyway, ten years later his wife also died. Poor Mister Menchelli went nuts, said his boys had been coming back to haunt him, that he couldn't get a moment's peace. Then when his wife died he just snapped; he jumped off the roof," Sam said.

"See? _He jumped off the roof_, Sam. It's not the boys doing this. It could be it's Mister Menchelli," Dean urged. Sam frowned at him, confused.

"Did you miss the bit about them sending him nuts?" he asked.

"Look, alright, so they came back to see him, big deal," Dean allowed. "Did anyone die while they were doing this?"

"Uhh… not according to records," Sam admitted slowly.

"There, see?" he said flatly, a hand landing on the table firmly. Sam blinked in surprise at his brother's conviction. "They're just having fun is all," he shrugged.

"What fun?" Sam asked carefully.

Dean looked back at him uneasily. "Nothing. Well… look, the reason people say this place is haunted? It's the little guys, running around scaring the straights," he said reluctantly, with a small amount of what appeared to be guilt.

"What?"

"Bethany reckons these two ghost boys run round poking people in the arm, moving their salt at dinner, pushing pens off tables, tapping people's shoulders, you know, harmless prank stuff," he said slowly, as if loathe to impart this kind of information.

"Bethany?"

"The girl from coffee morning."

"You said that was Angela," Sam pointed out. "What, you can't even remember their names, now?"

"No, ass-hat – Angela was the girl from this _morning_. She's got this room in her place – man, you should _see_ the bathtub…" His voice trailed off, his eyes seeing other things, then he shook his head quickly. "Bethany came back to our hotel room to help me with a few extra facts," he corrected. "A very thorough girl," he smiled.

"I don't want to know," Sam said quickly, waving a hand at him.

The waiter appeared, putting a bottle of beer on the table and then depositing a glass too. Dean nodded his thanks and he retreated again.

"Look, Lucy's husband died a year ago and since then she's done her best to keep this place going. The two guys leaping from the roof only made it harder, but she's done so much to keep the hotel open. She's been a real trooper."

"See? It's like I always say - good things do not happen to good people," Dean stated with a firmness that made Sam look at him. "It's just not fair – she seems like a nice girl."

"She is - a nice forty-three year old girl with a fifteen year old son. Who's obsessed with ghosts," Sam put in. "Patrick's told his mom he's seen them wandering the halls once or twice."

"Ah – so now we _know_ they're not evil," Dean shrugged, tilting his glass to pour the beer in slowly.

"Do we?"

"Aw come on, Sam, they're kids; all they do is play pranks. It's not like they're wasting their time wandering around hallways if they're supposed to be getting grown men to throw themselves off balconies, is it?" he scoffed, upending the beer bottle to make sure it was empty before setting it down on the table again.

"All I'm saying is, Mister Menchelli didn't seem the kind of man to make people jump off either – and the boys drove him to his own death," he shrugged.

"Then we need to know exactly how he died. I mean, why did he throw himself off the roof like that?" he asked, taking a swig of beer.

"The newspapers weren't very helpful there. It just said he was upset about Lydia, his wife, dying."

"So how did his wife die?" he asked.

"Again, no information. It was 1997, that's all the papers say. He died within two days of her, then this place went up for sale. Late winter of '97, Mister and Mrs Backet bought this place, then spent a fair chunk of change refurbishing, and everything seemed to be ok."

"Right," Dean scoffed. "So we need to dig up dirt on the wife. What was her name again?"

"Lydia," Sam supplied. The waiter approached again and set down a rather large plate of lasagne in front of Sam. Dean stared at it, transfixed.

"Should have had that, man," he muttered to himself. Sam smiled smugly, picking up his napkin and dropping it over his knee, finding his fork eagerly. "Makes my mouth water just looking at it."

A familiar guitar strain floated through the air around them and Sam paused as he went to dig his fork into his lasagne.

Dean was still staring at his brother's plate. Sam snapped his fingers at him.

"Dude, phone," he pointed out. Dean put his hand down to his jeans pocket automatically, pulling his phone out.

"Yeah'ello," he managed. He paused, listening. "Oh, Reinette, hi. I was just talking about you," he beamed.

Sam sighed and started on his food anyway.

"Really? Wow, sounds serious. I should come and look at that for you," Dean said confidently. "Uh-huh, I insist. You never know when those belts can snap, and land you in all kindsa trouble." He flicked his gaze up at Sam, the green flecks in his eyes positively dancing with amusement. "Ok then. About an hour – oh, ok. How about eight o'clock? I'm sure I will. No problem," he added suavely.

He snapped the phone closed and abruptly put two thumbs up at Sam.

"Well that's the dirt on Lydia Menchelli more or less covered," he grinned. Sam just raised his eyebrows in query, his mouth full of creamy, dreamy, cheesy lasagne. "The lovely Reinette would like me to check the fan-belt on her 2006 model Chevrolet Impala," he added grandly. "Can't hurt, right?"

"Another ladies' coffee morning girl?" Sam guessed.

"Absolutely," Dean grinned. "All I have to do is get this food down me and head on over to her place. Trust me, I'll have all the gory details before you turn in on your sofa," he nodded.

* * *

_Sam's time is coming... Oh yeah!_


	4. Chapter 4

**FOUR**

Sam woke suddenly, sitting up with a jolt and looking round the room. He wondered what had caused him to wake so abruptly, and looked at the main door. No change. He looked over at the large bed under the curtained window. It was empty, Dean's duffle still on it apparently happy to be all on its own.

He pulled the blanket free from where it had become entangled in his pyjama trousers as he looked back over at Dean's empty bed.

_It's not enough he has to bag the bed, but not even using it? Jerk_, he thought vindictively. He realised now was as good a time as any to use one of his best huffs, which triggered a debate: would it count as part of yesterday's quota, or the new day's?

He pulled himself to stand up, scrubbing tired hands over his face. He stumbled to his watch on the table, picking it up to find it was almost four in the morning.

_New day's huff, then._

He sighed, putting it all down to being over-tired, and turned back to the sofa. He was just making himself comfortable when he heard his phone ringing. He huffed before he knew he had done it and tutted at himself as he climbed out of his makeshift bed again in the near pitch. He made it to the wall and snapped the light on, blinking around the room. He snatched up the Blackberry and read the name on the display.

He sighed and let it ring another few seconds before he pressed the receive button.

"Dean. Do you know what time it is?" he asked wearily.

"Shut up. Get my duffle, get down to…" There was a pause, then a muffled curse. "Ah… I'm two blocks from the hotel. Get your ass down here with my stuff."

"What stuff?" Sam asked.

"All of it," Dean snapped.

"Wh-y?" Sam asked slowly. He thought for a moment. "Where are you?" he added suspiciously.

"I just told you! I'm two blocks away, toward the main road. I'm in the Impala. Hurry up."

"You sound cold," Sam smiled. "Is there a reason you want me to bring your duffle to you in the Impala?"

"Just do it," Dean growled, and the line was cut.

Sam looked at his phone, thinking as he put it back on the table. He noticed his duffle open next to his hand and frowned.

_No-one's been in here but me. Who's opened the bag?_

He put his hand in and it connected with the large, black toy 8-ball he had discovered earlier. He pulled it out, looking it over slowly.

A memory surfaced, blinding him to the real toy in his hands.

Instead he saw John Winchester, hands on hips, shouting down at him from a great height as he fought another grabbling boy. By John's feet was Sam's Magic 8-Ball, the plastic cracked and water over the floorboards. He remembered the sound of John's angry orders to stop fighting with his brother, the taste of the blood seeping from his lip, the cool hardness of the floorboards…

The current room just melted away.

Sam shivered as he felt John reach out and grasp him by the scruff of the neck. He was wrenched from his brother as he realised that he too was being pulled to his feet.

"You explain what the hell's going on here, _now_!" John roared, still holding both boys firmly by the collars on their t-shirts.

"Sammy made me drop it!"

"Dean broke my toy!"

"I swear Dean, I have never seen an eleven year old with less brains than you!" John shouted. Dean opened his mouth to protest, but John shook his collar firmly. "Don't you _dare_ start with your smart mouth, y'hear me!" he raged.

Sam poked his tongue out at his fuming sibling, enjoying the look of petulance and hurt on his brother's face.

"And _you_, Sam! Just cos someone breaks your stuff don't mean you have to fight 'em!" John cried angrily, but he let the younger boy go without the authoritarian shake. Sam took a few steps clear of his father, and the furiously pouting Dean, who was staring at the floorboards.

"But he hit me!" Sam protested.

"No I never!" Dean shot back hastily.

"I don't care, you hear me? Both o' you are going straight to that room and not coming out till morning - and if I so much as hear a single kick to the furniture, or a pissy remark from either of you, you're both going to Bobby's for the term break! _Do you understand me_!" he shouted, shaking Dean by the collar again.

He let him go with a slight push, and the young lad turned away to the room. Sam ran into the room first, leaping onto his bed as if he expected Dean to somehow ruin that, too.

Dean's head hung low as he walked to the door.

"Dean," John said suddenly. The young boy didn't stop or turn. "Dean Winchester! You _look at me_ when I'm talking to you!"

Dean huffed through his nose. He turned slowly, lifting a rebellious chin. He looked at his father.

"I expect more from you," he told the eleven year old, a sudden gruffness to his voice. "Sam's just a kid."

They looked at each other for a long moment. At last Dean nodded once, a sullen, guilty bob of the head. Then he turned and walked into the room.

Sam was sat on the bed, glaring malevolently at Dean. But he ignored him, climbing on his bunk and curling up, his back to his younger brother. Sam stared, determined not to let this one go. But Dean didn't move once, impervious to even Sam's arctic stare on his back.

Sam nestled himself in the mess of blankets on his bed, unwilling to stop staring in case he missed a chance to glare at his brother in the night. His eyes closed for just a second.

He opened them again quickly. Light was streaming in through the boarded up window between the beds, casting dusty swirls of sun over the room. Sam sat up, realising he had missed quite a lot after all.

He found his Magic 8-Ball, refilled with water and glued across the crack, at the foot of his bed. He looked over at Dean, who was now in his pyjamas and to all intents and purposes, completely asleep under his blankets.

He picked up the ball and looked at the carefully glued damage.

But as he looked down at the ball in his hands, he realised it had no crack, no damage. His hands were no longer smaller than the toy. He was brought back to the present with a snap, looking around the room to confirm he hadn't actually gone anywhere. This was not the shared bedroom from all those years ago. His dad was not in the next room. Neither was his brother. His brother… who was about to be permanently removed from his life if he couldn't somehow stop the consequences of what he had done for him.

It took a moment for him to readjust to the present. He shoved all the bitterness aside, determined not to dwell on all the unhappy changes since that innocent fight over an accident, so long ago.

He looked back at the toy. He nodded at it silently, letting himself remember the aftermath of the particular fight.

_I tried to thank him for fixing it, but he wouldn't listen to any sentence with the word 'magic' in it for the next three weeks._ An amazed smile swept across Sam's adult face as a thought struck him. _Did he put it in here cos he broke mine?_ he asked himself.

He cleared his throat, determined to use the brotherly gift. "Ok… Tell me Magic 8-Ball, did my brother somehow get into trouble for meeting up with that Reinette girl this evening?"

He turned the ball away from him, then back over and waited for the answer to float into view.

_'Outlook good.'_

His resulting smile was cheeky and full of teeth. Then he caught himself doing it and made it fall, putting the ball back in his bag and zipping it up. He went looking for his jeans.

* * *

Sam spotted the dark shape of the Impala and smiled to himself. He hitched his brother's duffle onto his shoulder and walked up round the back of the car slowly on the offside. He bent and looked in the passenger window, then grinned.

He put a hand out and rapped on the window noisily.

Dean, in the driver's seat, nearly jumped out of his skin before thinking to look over at the glass.

"_Je_sus Sam!" he hissed, leaning over and unlocking the door.

It was then that Sam realised Dean was wearing neither shirt nor t-shirt. As he made out the image of his brother leaning back over to his own side, his knees bent up to his chest so his feet could perch on the edge of the driver's seat, all of Sam's suspicions about his total state of undress were confirmed in a flash.

Sam looked away quickly, shaking his head. He opened the door, bending to hand the duffle in, but keeping his face looking out over the bonnet.

"Care to explain why your freezing your naked ass off in the car?" he grinned.

"No," Dean snapped, taking the bag from him and unzipping it quickly. "Shut the goddamn door, it's cold out there."

"So that's why it's so small," Sam quipped.

"Whut?"

"Your sense of humour," Sam smiled, slamming the door loudly and turning round to lean back on it. He folded his arms, shaking his head and grinning a decidedly vindictive grin.

It was a few minutes before he heard a tap at the inside of the window and he turned, peeking inside to make sure Dean's coast was no longer clear before opening the door to get in.

"Where did you hide your phone?" Sam teased.

"In the glovebox, pervert," he shot back. He had shrugged on jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt, and his feet appeared to be jammed into his unlaced boots, but everything else was on the back seat hanging out of the duffle.

"So?" Sam asked with a complacent grin.

"_So_," he stressed, not looking at Sam as he turned the keys in the ignition, "we got two corpses to find."

"The two boys?" Sam asked in surprise. "I thought you said it couldn't be them, that they weren't evil? Why did you change your mind?"

"Not the two boys. It's dear old Mommy – and the other man," Dean said, still not looking at Sam. "Mommy was a very naughty girl until Daddy caught her at it."

"Is that something you'd have experience with?" Sam grinned. "I mean, recently?"

"Shut up. I need a hot shower and a soft bed, and you need to get digging through burial records as soon as it gets light," he growled, keeping his gaze on the road as he pulled away from the kerb and headed back the two short blocks to the Backet Hotel.

* * *

Come the next morning, it was almost as if Dean's frozen night waiting in a car hadn't happened. He shovelled a fork full of scrambled egg into his mouth and sniffed, lifting his head to look at the bathroom door.

"Leave your toothpaste out, man. I had to throw mine," he called.

"Again?" Sam called back, then opened the door to look out at him. "What do you do with the stuff?"

"Forgot the lid, made a mess," he admitted, finishing the last bit of sausage on his plate and pushing it away from him slightly. He got up to go to his duffle, picking it up and unzipping it. "Hey, did your shaver work?"

"Yeah," Sam called.

"Can I borrow it? Mine still don't like that power socket."

"You'd better. You're looking a bit shaggy," Sam smiled.

"You're just jealous you don't look as good with a goatee," Dean smirked. "And that it'd take you three weeks to grow one."

"Whatever," Sam shot back, closing the bathroom door with his foot.

Dean chuckled to himself, going to his brother's duffle on the sofa and opening it. He looked in and stopped short.

"You're kidding me," he muttered in surprise, reaching in and taking out the Magic 8-Ball slowly. He stared at it for a moment before casting the bathroom door a look. Then he sighed. "Ok Magic 8-Ball, tell me this: did Sam put you in here to remind me I _accidentally_ smashed his one like a hundred years ago?"

He turned it over and waited for his reply.

_'Better not tell you now.'_

He snorted with amusement, then shook his head and put the ball back in the bag. Sam opened the door and caught him with his hands inside it.

"Dude, don't go through my stuff," he said wearily.

"I was looking for your shaver," he replied easily. "Are you still pissed at me for dropping your Magic 8-Ball?" he added suddenly.

"What?" Sam asked, confused. He walked over slowly, watching Dean with suspicion. "Why would I be upset over a toy you broke like aeons ago?"

"I don't know, man, you tell me. You always carry one around in your bag? Been using it for chat-up lines? Now I know why you never get dates."

"I thought _you_ put it in there," Sam replied, refusing to rise to the jibe.

"Me? Come on, Sammy. Not really my style, is it?" Dean asked, shaking his head and going for the bathroom door. "I don't need some toy to remind me how disappointed he always was in me," he muttered, apparently to himself.

Sam opened his mouth but thought better of it.

"Hey," Dean said quickly, stopping to look at him. "Maybe it was the ghost boys," he grinned, raising his hands and rippling his fingers at him. "Maybe it's their way of telling you that you don't know _every_thing."

"I'm sure it is," Sam sighed, unwilling to get drawn into anything. "Shaver's on the counter. Help yourself."

"Cool," Dean said without thinking. He walked into the bathroom and picked up the shaver. He plugged it in and flicked it on before looking at himself in the mirror. "Almost seems a shame to get rid of it now, though," he said to himself, flicking his fingers through the short gingery-blond scratchy goatee with just a weeny bit of approval.

Abruptly the power died and the plug leapt out of the socket.

"Aw come on!" Dean cried angrily.

He picked it up and shoved it unceremoniously back in the socket. He turned on the power but again it cut out and the plug jumped free. Dean slammed the shaver down and walked to the bathroom door.

"Alright, very funny Sam," he accused hotly.

"What?" Sam asked innocently. "Worked for me like ten minutes ago. If the socket's too complicated for you to use, just run it on the batteries," he added maliciously.

Dean huffed and turned back to the shaver, pulling the power cord free and moving the power button over to battery. He turned it on again but nothing happened. He flicked the button up and down, then shook it and fumed.

"You didn't charge it, dumbass!" he accused.

Sam's official Huff Quota went out of the window as he _harrumph_ed like it was all monumentally unjust, then marched over and yanked it from his brother's hand. He flicked the power button and it started up immediately.

"Here," Sam snapped, handing it him back again. "Honestly. You'd think the guy who taught me to shave in the first place would be able to do it himself."

Dean stared at the shaver, lost in thought.

"Did I?" he asked, confused.

"You wouldn't remember," Sam said dismissively. Then he looked over at his brother, who was struggling with the recollection, as if it were suddenly very important to him. Sam let his shoulders sag and his anger go. "I was… I was mortified, man. I did it myself, then appeared downstairs. Dad just laughed at me and told you to take me _up_stairs again and show me how to do it properly. He had a Hunt," he admitted with a mixture of embarrassment and resentment.

"When we were staying in that creepy Whatcha-ma-call-it's house?" Dean asked, a flash of memory coming back to him. "Uhh… The Housons. Yeah, the Housons." He snapped his fingers suddenly. "And then after Dad went out, we went through the record collection and put on old Mr Houson's only Led Zeppelin album and sank his entire stash of beer from out of the fridge," Dean chuckled.

"Yeah," Sam managed, recalling that night exactly.

_And you were the coolest brother in the world, cos you just looked at me, didn't even laugh. As soon as we were in the bathroom you said 'Don't worry about it, squirt. What does the old man know, anyway? Mom probably had to teach him how to do it right in the first place'._

Sam let himself smile, knowing those words would probably remain etched into his memory for many more years to come. "That was a good night," he managed fondly.

"Yeah it was," Dean nodded warmly to himself, then he realised the shaver was still running and made himself pay attention to what he was doing.

Sam watched him raise the shaver to his face, oblivious of the grateful look his younger brother was sending his way. A look that turned to heart-break as he remembered where his older brother was destined to go in just a few months' time.

The sputter and cessation of the shaver shocked them both from their thoughts and Sam cleared his throat, looking away smartly. Dean ground his teeth and sucked in a long breath, capping the anger quickly lest it cause him to repeatedly smash the offending article into the counter until it shattered into a thousand pieces.

"Ok," he breathed slowly. "I give up. I'm finding myself a wet razor first change I get." He turned and marched out of the bathroom, slapping the implement into Sam's hand firmly. "Are we ready?"

"Ready," Sam mumbled, hiding his slightly red face.

"Good. We need to get to that library and trace this mysterious third man," he grumped, his anger still carefully controlled. "And I ain't talking about Orson Welles."


	5. Chapter 5

**FIVE**

"So did you actually check under this Reinette's hood last night?" Sam asked innocently.

Dean didn't take his eyes from his microfiche reader in front of him. "Hmm-mm," he confirmed, pre-occupied.

"And?"

"And it really needed some grease-monkey love," he muttered, still reading.

"And you told her you'd do it for her?"

"Yup."

"How did she take it?" Sam asked conversationally.

"Loudly," his brother murmured, still pre-occupied reading.

Sam looked confused for a whole second. Then he tutted and leaned over, smacking Dean's arm lightly.

Dean looked up from the microfiche reader. "Whut?" he asked innocently, then smirked in a way that left Sam in no doubt as to how his brother had spent most of his time at the girl's place. "You asked _me_, dude," Dean pointed out.

Sam waved a hand at him, turning in his chair away from his own microfiche to move closer to Dean's chair.

"Look, just stick to the facts of the case?" he urged.

"Just the facts, ma'am, just the facts," Dean grinned to himself, then looked round to find Sam pinning him with an impatient scowl. "'_Dragnet_'? No?" he added hopefully. "Forget it," he sighed. "Alright, she said that Lydia wasn't exactly your model housewife. She'd had affairs all around the block – but poor Andrew never knew anything about it. After their boys died she kinda got worse. He came home one day, found her _in flagrante_ with some poor dude it turned out she'd been seeing for a while. They had this huge bust-up with kitchen knives, flying plates, the whole nine yards. She died like two days later, apparent suicide. The next day Andrew topped himself."

"Hmm."

"_And_ get this: Lydia was cremated," Dean added, tapping the screen on his microfiche reader. "Just found the article right here that confirms it. So that narrows it down a little, huh?"

Sam turned back to his screen, thinking. "Did Reinette know the name of this extra-marital friend?" he asked thoughtfully.

"Uhh… Kevin something," he said, thinking hard. "Uhh… Kevin Dal – Dal..."

"Didn't you write it down?" he asked, annoyed.

"Had my hands full," Dean admitted, and Sam's eyes rolled right round in their sockets, screaming round the 360 as if Dario Franchitti himself were willing them round. "Dal… Like… Dalrim--"

"Dalrymple?" Sam interrupted.

"That's it," Dean nodded. "Why? Whatcha got?" he asked, leaning over to look at Sam's screen.

Sam reached up and tapped it, indicating the newspaper article on the screen. "Cos this guy, one Kevin Dalrymple, was found dead, stabbed several times in the chest and heart, at his home. No-one seemed to be that cut up about it—"

"Bad joke, dude."

"Whatever. No-one cared cos he wasn't exactly famous or rich, and it wasn't as sensational a death as Andrew Menchelli throwing himself off the roof of his own hotel two nights later."

"Fickle bastards, newspaper reporters," Dean observed. Sam looked at him. "So it's this Kevin Dalrymple guy, right? Not Andrew Menchelli? Not the two boys?"

"Hate to say it, but he died violently, and had more reason to make people jump from roofs," he shrugged.

"Well as long as you're leaving them boys alone, it works for me," Dean sniffed to himself, turning back to his own microfiche viewer.

Sam smiled, bemused. "Why's that?" he asked lightly.

"Why's whut?" Dean asked defensively, ostensibly reading the newspaper cuttings.

"Come on, what is it?"

"Nothing," Dean said, his winning '_most likely to be voted irascible_' expression written on his face.

Sam thought about it, his interest piqued. "Come on, tell me. What?"

"Whut 'what'?" Dean snapped.

"Why are you happy we're leaving the boys alone?" he smiled.

"Do I look happy to you?" Dean asked him seriously, turning to look at him with a face that was a study in building annoyance.

Sam cleared his throat slowly and looked back at his own machine. Dean went back to his screen, the stiffness in the air making Sam's mouth slope down at the corners as he turned it over in his mind.

He took a relaxing breath and pasted on a slight smile. "So what do we do now?" he asked easily.

"Find this Kevin dude and salt and burn his remains," Dean shrugged. Sam thought for a long moment, and when there was no reply, Dean looked at him. "What now?"

"Just… You think Kevin Dalrymple is pushing people off roofs?"

"Yeah, I do. Lydia was cremated, so it ain't her."

"There's still Andrew Menchelli," he pointed out. "Lydia died the day after Kevin, and Andrew the day after that. You don't think that maybe Andrew went over to Kevin's and took his anger out on him with a large knife, then came back and told her what he'd done? Then maybe she killed herself, and Andrew decided to jump?"

Dean eyed him for a long second, thinking. "Maybe," he nodded.

"So two violent deaths – it could be Kevin _or_ Andrew, dude."

"Well my money's on Kevin," Dean shrugged.

"Well, while we have to dig up and barbecue the extra-marital distraction, you might think about finding the two boys at the same time," Sam replied neatly. "After all, they're still around, apparently stuck here. And they did drive Andrew to the roof."

"No they didn't," Dean scoffed, shaking his head dismissively. Sam let his mouth come loose.

"Dean, what is this thing you have about the two little boys?" he asked frankly, still prepared to listen.

"I ain't got a thing about—"

"Sure," Sam said heavily. "Cos you're always this willing to believe visiting spirits are oh-so-innocent."

"Leave it, Sam," he warned. "You're seeing things that ain't."

"Right," Sam said flatly, turning off his microfiche and getting up. He collected his notebook and Blackberry, looking at Dean again. "We done?"

"Looks like," Dean agreed curtly. "You know where this Kevin dude's buried?"

"Yup," Sam nodded with slight annoyance. "Place is close-by. You sure you don't want to find and burn Andrew at the same time?"

"Very. Kevin's real vengeful spirit material," he said shortly, not looking up. "It ain't Andrew."

"Fine," Sam said stiffly.

"Fine," Dean nodded, and Sam turned on his heel and stalked off.

Dean kept his gaze on his screen until he knew Sam was gone. Then he leaned back in his chair, heaved a deep sigh, and turned it off. He got up slowly and followed him out to the car park.

* * *

Sam slid the keycard into the hotel door, letting himself in. Dean followed him, going straight to his bed and his duffle still sitting on it.

"So... what time is it now?" Dean asked.

"Nearly six," Sam replied, looking at his watch.

"Too early for diggin' and torchin'," Dean concluded. "It's nap time."

"Dude…"

"Look, we have to go to some creepy-ass graveyard in the middle of the night and get some serious elbow grease in. I, for one, would like a rest first," he said pointedly, moving his duffle off the bed and dropping it on the floor.

"Sure, whatever," Sam allowed. "I'm going down to the Starbuck's. You want anything?"

"Hot chocolate," he smiled. "With whipped cream."

"Right," Sam allowed, shaking his head and walking back out.

Dean turned towards to the bed. He glimpsed something from the corner of his eye and halted quickly. He whipped round to see it clearly – but there was nothing there.

_A boy? Or just a black shape? Man, maybe **I'm** seeing things that ain't there_, he reasoned.

He shook his head and sat on the bed slowly, wiping a hand over his face and then lifting a foot onto the bed cover, starting to unlace his boot. Something nudged at his left shoulder.

He froze, the hair standing up on the back of his neck for some primal reason. He trusted his hair to know more than his conscious brain did and looked around the room slowly.

Nothing moved.

He thought for a second, then carried on freeing the tight laces from the boot, keeping a surreptitious eye on the room. He pulled them loose and grasped the boot, pulling it off easily and dropping it to the floor. He lifted up his other foot and started on that.

There was a light touch at his ear and his hand automatically came up to bat away whatever it was. He froze in mid-flail and looked round sharply instead. Then he let himself smile, letting his hand drop and starting on the boot laces again. He pulled the boot off and let it fall to the carpet. He pushed himself back and laid out on the bed, putting his hands behind his head and letting out a long, comfortable sigh. Waiting.

He felt a poke in his side and opened his eyes quickly, looking around. Nothing. He let his eyes close again and concentrated on relaxing.

Suddenly there was a sharp jab to his side and he jumped as it connected with a sensitive spot. His eyes crashed open and he sat up quickly.

"Alright boys, cut it out," he warned, putting his right hand round to his left side where he'd been poked. He felt a pinch at his right shoulder and turned to see. Then he smiled, looking to his left swiftly. "You know, the old tap-the-opposite-shoulder-trick don't work when I can't see you anyway," he said craftily. "So come on, which one are you, James or Martin Menchelli?"

He looked around the room but nothing changed.

"Come on, man, don't leave me hanging," Dean teased. "It was you that poked me before, right? Are we in your room? You want us to leave?"

A cushion half-heartedly propelled itself off the sofa and Dean looked over at it.

"Is that a yes?" he hazarded. The bed shivered and he saw two indents appear at the end of it. He cleared his throat warily. "It's _not_ you two pushing guys off roofs, right?" he added quickly. There was a light slap at his arm and he jumped. "Hey come on, that's not fair," he pointed out. "I'm just asking, dude. What's the story here?"

The indents on the bed disappeared, and although he waited, nothing else touched him. He got up to go into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

After relieving himself of the coffee and water he'd had all day at the library, he came out again to find the bedcovers all pulled off and lying on the floor. He paused, hands on hips, to look round the room.

"Aw come on, guys. Look, you probably know what me and my brother do, right? You want to help us out here? Can't be fun with some other stiffs making people think you're doing all this, huh? Huh?"

Silence. He let his hands drop, sighed, and went to the bed covers, bending over to pick them up. He straightened up again and froze.

A small boy, possibly nine years old, was sitting on the bed, his legs crossed under him. His wavy brown hair was short but bouncy, and he certainly looked cheerful enough. He stared back at Dean with curiosity, and Dean stared back at him, trying to take it in.

"So…" he managed, then cleared his throat. "Are you James? No wait," he smiled, snapping his fingers, "You're Martin, right?" He looked over his faded jeans and scuffed Nike trainers, then back to the boy's face. He simply looked back at him, interested. Dean shrugged, as if he didn't mind either way, and pulled the blankets up from the floor. He rolled them round his arm and dumped them on the bed before looking back at the boy. "So it's been you two poking and playing – ahhh, right," he realised suddenly. "You're the one with the mapping pin? The Magic 8-Ball? Playing with ma shaver?"

The boy grinned suddenly, nodding his head.

"Right," Dean nodded. "Could be worse, I suppose." The boy simply waited, and Dean folded his arms, watching him. "You know we're here about those two men dying," he said seriously. "We know someone here is doing this, making those men jump."

The boy scowled and looked away.

"Hey kid, I know it's not you, alright?" Dean said confidently, and the boy looked back at him. "I do, I know it's not you two. I mean, poking people and pushing their pens off reception counters? Spreading mapping pins and sneaking Magic 8-Balls into people's bags? That's cool, I can see the fun in that," he nodded with a smile. "But people jumping off buildings? People doing what your dad did? That is so not cool," he added sadly.

The boy stole a glance at Dean, realised he was watching him, and looked away again.

"So are you gonna point me in the right direction?" he asked gently. "Like ah… You must have seen other people here, people like you?"

The boy looked at him, lifting a hand and drawing it across his throat quickly, looking confused.

"Yeah, dead people," Dean replied. "Have you seen anyone you know?"

The boy nodded fearfully.

"Someone in your family?"

He nodded again.

"Dad? Is your dad here?"

The boy looked away, to the headboard of the bed, and Dean thought for a moment. His eyes ran over the boy slowly as he searched for something to say - anything that would get the boy to start talking.

"_ThunderCats_," he said suddenly, and the boy looked back at him. Dean raised a hand, indicating the boy's branded t-shirt with a confident finger. "We used to watch that show all the time. You know it's still going?" he grinned, and the boy looked hopeful, smiling slightly. "Yeah – it's on Cartoon Network. Same old repeats. I think I've seen that one about the snowman from Hook Mountain about ninety times now," he grinned.

The boy looked at him with knowing doubt. Dean decided to double his efforts.

"Y'know, I used to watch that show when my dad was out. He was always out," he added, a little more quietly. "But then my little brother always wanted to watch it, so we did. Tell the truth, I'm glad he liked it, y'know? Kept me from having to glue him to the chair for half an hour a night, he'd do it all by himself to watch it."

He smiled to himself, and the boy's face softened slightly, Dean noticed.

"I musta been, what, ten maybe? And Sam's like six, and all he can do is hide when that snowman dude come out, cos Snow Meow comes with him. Seriously, he's like '_make the bad cat go away_'," Dean squealed in a high voice, lifting his hands and shaking them to indicate terror.

The boy appeared to laugh, but there was no sound. He chuckled anyway and looked down at his t-shirt proudly.

"I always liked the tank," Dean smiled, and the boy nodded. "Sammy liked Snarf. He's _that_ kind of little brother."

The boy jumped off the bed and pointed at himself, before putting a hand out and holding it at about shoulder height.

"So you _are_ Martin," Dean guessed. "And… the little guy is James, right?"

The boy watched him, nodding reluctantly.

"Naw… not James. Jimmy?" he hazarded. The boy snapped his fingers at him and giggled silently, and Dean smiled, he couldn't help it. "Is Jimmy around here too?"

Martin waved a hand a hand around in general circles, then hopped back onto the bed comfortably.

"Can I ask you a question, Martin?" Dean asked, backing away to a chair and sitting slowly. Martin nodded. "Why are you two still here? Shouldn't you be off somewhere together? Like… the place where dead people go?"

Martin put four fingers up, then instead indicated someone at shoulder height again. Then he lifted it to his own head, then another two, both well over his head.

"So there's you, Jimmy, Dad… and someone else. Kevin? Do you know Kevin?"

Martin looked down quickly, folding his arms.

"Look, I'm sorry Martin. No-one likes hearing about bad stuff, but… is Kevin here too? Your dad and Kevin, they're both here?"

Martin kept his gaze on his hands, then abruptly turned and looked out of the window.

"Martin, we can help you. We can make Kevin go away," he said urgently. "Is he here?"

Martin shrugged, keeping his face on the window.

"And your dad?"

Martin turned around completely, his back to him.

"I'll take that as a 'yes'," he sighed. "Listen to me, Martin," he said seriously. "Me and my brother are going to make Kevin go away. Tonight. I promise you, he won't be here tomorrow."

Martin turned and looked at him slowly, and Dean had never seen so much fear in such a young boy's eyes.

"You don't need to worry, Martin. We know how to do this. Kevin will not be here tomorrow," he said firmly.

But Martin shook his head slowly, scared. He put his hand up and tapped at his left eye lid. Then he scratched a hand at his chin. Dean blinked, lost. Martin did it again, more urgently.

Dean opened his mouth to ask, but the hotel door opened suddenly.

"Hey, look what I got," Sam began.

Dean turned to tell him to close the door, but then kicked himself and looked round again quickly.

Martin was gone.


	6. Chapter 6

**SIX**

"Aw _damm_it," Dean growled, looking round the room. He went to his duffle and picked up the EMF meter, turning it on quickly. "Nice going, Sam, he's split," he tutted, looking at his taller younger brother.

"What?" Sam asked, closing the door behind him. "You asked for hot chocolate, I brought you hot chocolate. What's the big–"

"You didn't see Martin on the bed?" Dean accused. "He was telling me things, Sam! We could have had all this figured out!"

"Woah woah woah – Martin? As in the older Menchelli boy? He was here? He was here, sitting on the bed?" Sam asked seriously.

"No Sam, it was the Easter bunny," Dean snapped, then flumped heavily down in the chair, thinking.

"Well… ok," Sam said lamely, walking to the table and putting the two tall take-out cups on it slowly. He pulled his jacket off, sitting on the sofa. "What, ah… what did he say?" he asked gingerly.

Dean looked at him. "What's with that face?" he demanded.

"What face?" Sam asked defensively.

"You're looking at me like I've told you I collect Celine Dion albums. Whut?" he snapped.

Sam's face turned apologetic. "Nothing, just… Martin Menchelli was here. Really."

"Yes, really. Which bit about '_he was here sat on the bed_' do you not get?" Dean asked, wiping a hand across his bristly chin and glaring at his brother admirably.

"Ahh… No, really, if you say he was here, then he was here," Sam shrugged.

"So why is there a big-ass 'but' hanging in the air?" Dean pressed.

"Well… I did some checking on them, too. Seems they were both cremated," he shrugged. "Same as their mother. So they can't be here any more, Dean. Whoever you think you saw, it wasn't one of them."

Dean huffed, leaning back in the chair and closing his eyes for a moment. He rubbed them soundly with one hand before opening them and looking at Sam.

"Look, the little guy was here. He couldn't make any noises, like… I don't know, he just couldn't speak. When he laughed it was like a DVD with no sound on it. It was freaky," he said shortly. "And he said there are other ghosts, not just him and his brother."

"I'm telling you Dean, it's not—"

"Who else is it going to be, Sam?" Dean demanded. Sam closed his mouth abruptly. "If it really was someone else, why did he get all upset when I mentioned Kevin? He made out like there were four people here," he added hotly. "Him, James, his dad and Kevin. I told him we'd take care of Kevin, but he just got scared."

"Right," Sam sighed.

"What _is_ it with you?" he cried angrily, climbing to his feet, and Sam looked up, surprised. "You're normally like, like…" He paused, his hands going out in confusion and despair as he thought about it. "You walk around going '_we gotta save 'em all, Dean - not every spirit is evil, Dean - they're all probably angels in disguise, Dean_.'" He let his hands drop as he pinned Sam with a look that could have come straight from the back of the freezer, behind the Häagen-Dazs. "After all the shit we been through, all the '_Dean, I had a vision of some dude getting ganked_' and me just going with it cos I was crazy enough to believe you, _now_ you wanna tell me that you think _I'm_ seeing things? _Seriously_?" he thundered. _Come on, man! A little bit of trust would be nice! Let's just get this case over with already_, Dean's brain ran on.

"So what, Dean, I just have to trust you like you trusted me, so we can get this case over with?" Sam accused.

Dean blinked but refused to show his surprise. "It'd be nice," he shot back.

"How about finding the flaws in your theories and plugging them?" Sam challenged.

"Plugging them? You're too busy blowin' 'em out the friggin' water, Sam!"

Sam huffed and folded his arms, and Dean's jaw took on a definite edge. The room went uncomfortably quiet as they glared each other with eyes that were much too similar, and yet completely the opposite.

Eventually, Dean let his eyes fall and just shook his head.

"I don't even know what we're arguing about," he said with an uneasy ghost of a smile that, to Sam, smacked of denial. "What a pain in the ass you are," he chuckled to himself, shaking his head in polite amusement.

Sam took in his display of blatantly obvious bravado and stalled a huff - keeping it for later when he could enjoy it more - and decided he needed a few answers.

"So the boy - Martin. He was here, was he?" he asked in quiet, controlled tones.

"Yes," Dean said clearly, then turned to the bed again, shoving the blankets to one side.

"Right, yeah, 'course he was," Sam shrugged. "Except they were both cremated. End of story."

Dean blinked, then closed his mouth. His eyes slid to one side and he thought for a moment.

"What?" Sam prompted.

"No no, nothing," Dean said airily, lifting out the blankets and trying to spread them over the bed properly. "Just that perhaps you missed something in your fact-finding check, Columbo."

"Like what?" Sam asked earnestly. "Look Dean, it'd be nice if they really are still here, not to mention helpful, but sometimes this job just makes you see things that aren't there," he added gently.

Dean smiled to himself, turning to look at Sam, and the younger sibling had a horrible feeling Dean was incredibly confident he was right on this one.

"So… the Magic 8-Ball?" he asked smugly. "I didn't put it there. _You_ didn't put it there." He looked confused suddenly, putting a finger to his goatee-covered chin and effecting deep thought. "Now let me think here… perhaps it was a personal possession. Perhaps it belonged to the boys. Perhaps they put it in your bag. Oh, let me see," he said suddenly, snapping his fingers and looking at Sam with a particularly damning expression. "So that would be a personal effect that wasn't cremated with them, right? So that might be how they're still around, right? So I might not be seeing things or going nuts, _right_?" he pressed, sarcasm fighting for control of his flat-out accusing tone.

Sam raised his hands in surrender swiftly. "Alright, ok, you've made your point," he said desperately. "Jeez, I thought you stopped picking on me when I was like ten," he added defensively.

Dean looked away to the bed quickly, and Sam recognised a defensive move when he saw one.

"You know what? Forget it," Dean said tiredly. "It's just… Forget it," he said, walking round the bed to move his boots.

Sam watched him, then took a deep breath. "Are we going to talk about the two dead brothers thing now?" he asked quietly. Dean didn't look at him.

"Thought we were doing, Sam," he said, in a voice that was much too professional for Sam's liking.

"No. We're talking about how to stop people from jumping off roofs, and fathers and wives having affairs and nice girls that run hotels by themselves and ladies' coffee mornings. We're talking about everything else, but not the fact that you don't like these two boys being dead and there's nothing you can do to help them."

Dean looked over at him quickly, eyebrows quirked upwards and mouth rounded into a small 'O' shape in confusion.

"Say whut?"

"We do some shitty jobs, Dean. And you just plough through them like it doesn't even register. What's going on here, man? You eat and it doesn't even touch the sides. You get to bed late but get up before I do, when you used to turn to dust if the sun caught you before noon. Your car is getting the most tinkering love its ever had, and the moment we get news of these two dead boys you decide it can't be them," he said harshly. "What gives?"

"What gives?" Dean echoed, indignant. "What _gives_? I do Sam, in about four months. So yeah, I'm allowed to eat however I want, sleep when I want, appreciate my only worldly possession before it becomes yours, and I'm entitled to an opinion on spirits we have to deal with, ok?" he shot back angrily.

Sam bit his lip and it was silent for a long minute.

"You keep saying you're going to Hell, Dean," he managed quietly. "But… you know what?"

Dean simply watched him, the fire gone from his stare.

"What if… what if you don't?" Sam asked quietly. "What if something happens, and by some miracle, you're still here? Are you gonna regret doing all the things you've done, thinking you have a short time left to do them?"

"What are you talking about?" Dean breathed quietly.

"I'm talking about opening your wallet and finding nothing in there, cos you hadn't played pool in a month – cos you were gonna die – and you spent your last dime on oil for 'your baby'. I'm talking about drinking as much as you can and finding that you don't have the strength you had a year ago. That's all," he shrugged.

"So what you're saying is, I'm living like I ain't got a future," Dean concluded, his matter-of-fact tone irking Sam.

"Yeah."

"Do I need to remind you that I don't have one?" he said simply. "Forget it, Sam. Just… look, we have to find this Kevin character and give him a fiery send-off tonight. That's all," he said decisively. Sam watched him, but he ignored him and bent down to his boots. He chuckled suddenly, straightening with something in his hand.

"What?" Sam asked, finding himself inexplicably prepared to smile.

Dean lifted his boot, now attached to the other one by virtue of the laces being knotted together. He jiggled it slowly and looked at Sam.

"You still think Martin wasn't here?" he asked.

* * *

Dean pulled the Impala to the side of the road, looking out and around in the darkness as he killed the engine. The windscreen wipers halted their march across the glass, frozen in time across his field of vision.

"Well, at least we know no-one else will be out here to see us," he muttered, eyeing the torrential rain battering the windscreen.

"Let's just wait for an hour, see if it stops," Sam suggested.

"I like the way you think," Dean nodded, switching the ignition back on to the first phase, turning the radio on. The cassette inside started up and the sounds of Metallica began to hum quietly from the instrument.

Dean got comfortable in the driver's seat and sniffed, settling in. Sam pulled out his Blackberry and attempted to get enough of a signal to check some mail.

Metallica echoed round the car, doing their best to be heard over the steady drumming of the rain.

* * *

"Dean, wake up," Sam called, slapping his sleeping brother's shoulder.

"Whut? Whut'd I miss?" he gabbled at speed, sitting up in the seat and blinking around.

"It's nearly stopped raining," Sam said, tapping on the misted-up window. "Come on."

"Terrific," Dean heaved, wiping his face soundly and encountering the goatee at the bottom. He thought for a moment. "Hey," he said, as they both climbed out of the car.

"What?" Sam asked, going to the boot in the light drizzle.

Dean closed his door and followed him. "Did this Kevin guy have a bad eye? Or a beard?" he asked.

"No, not that I saw," Sam replied, waiting for Dean to open the boot. He did, and Sam bent in to get shovels and the small oilskin bag of barbecue tools. "Why?"

"Nothing," Dean shrugged, closing the boot. Sam passed him the shovels and Dean followed him from the car.

They walked up the small path to the cemetery, the drizzle covering them completely in just a few minutes. Sam pulled out his notebook, shielding it with his jacket to follow the instructions. He walked off between the graves, Dean following and not even bothering to try and keep the rain from his head.

"This is it," Sam announced, and slipped his notebook into the far reaches of his inside pocket.

Dean handed him one of the shovels and they began to dig. The drizzle turned steadily harder, until Dean paused his digging to get some breath back. Sam still worked away, his hair dripping, water running down his jacket as if from a duck's back. Dean shook his face clear of water and took a cautious look around before noticing the mud they were heaving out of the hole was dissolving in the rain and simply trickling back into the gradually deepening grave.

"Son of a bitch," Dean sighed. "Why do we get all these crappy after-hours gigs?"

"Cos if we did this during the day we'd get arrested," Sam called sarcastically over his shoulder. "What's the matter, old man, tired?"

"Bite me," he replied, bending down to get back to the digging.

It was a good hour before they reached the slimy, mud-ridden box at the bottom. Sam struck it first, jamming the spade into the wood and splintering it easily.

"Old wood. Super," he commented, straightening in the rain and getting his breath back. "Bag?" he asked.

Dean looked at him with a mixture of annoyance and weariness before climbing out of the hole and finding the small oilskin bag. He shook water from his face and unrolled the bag, tossing lighter fluid and a plastic bag of salt down to Sam.

He caught them and made good use of them, climbing out of the hole before throwing in a lighted match-book.

"So that's Kevin," Sam sighed with satisfaction.

"That's Kevin," Dean nodded, as they watched the flames.

"So we should be good now, right?" Sam prompted.

"Hmm," Dean managed, attention apparently elsewhere. Sam looked at him, but Dean appeared to ignore him. "Do we really have to wait for the stiff to burn before we can fill him in again?" he said with a slight whine to his voice, wiping rain from his face.

"Yeah," Sam smiled. Then he looked at him again. "Hey, ah… you ever wonder where they go? The spirits, I mean?" he asked quietly.

"Nope," Dean said decisively. "Not my job."

But his eyes said different.

* * *

The forty-minute ride back to the hotel was quiet and damp. After Dean had kicked up about the wet clothes and water puddling on the Impala's seats, Sam had won the argument with the simple logic that water was better than blood, and they'd had to wash more than their fair share of _that_ off the seats before.

"So I guess we can leave now?" Dean mused as the car rumbled back toward the promise of hot showers and warm beds.

"Looks like," Sam replied. "Dean… What is it with the two boys, huh? Come on, tell me," he asked gently.

Dean didn't look at him, his eyes instead rolling round the car interior. "If I do, will you promise to stop nagging me about other stuff?" he groaned wearily.

"What other stuff?" Sam smiled.

"Stuff. The 'D' stuff," Dean said simply.

_The story with the boys in return for ignoring his Deal?_ Sam snorted in amusement. _Must be some story. And nagging him about it is not going to change anything anyway._

"Deal," he said automatically, earning him a '_that's so not funny, Sam_' scowl from his big brother. "I mean yes, fine, sure," he said quickly.

"Ok then," Dean allowed, looking back at the road. "It's just…" He caught an edge of his lower lip in his teeth, looking out of his side window before he looked back at the road. "It's not their fault, you know? Two little guys, these little brothers… How the hell kids can still die of pneumonia in the eighties I'll never know. Someone was _not_ looking out for them, right? And they die, someone has them cremated – for what reason, we just don't know – and then the mom playing the field and them being around and knowing it… It just sucks, Sam, all of it. It's not fair, is all. And hanging around long enough to see that their dad went off and killed someone, that he went off the rails like that…" He paused, searching for words.

Suddenly the windscreen wipers had never sounded so loud to Sam's ears. He watched them thud from one side of his view to the other, the purring of the engine and the schlepping of the tyres on the wet road vying for domination over the sight of the rubber blades in his vision.

"Just not fair," Dean added guiltily, and Sam looked at him. "What if… what if that had been us? Huh? Would we have hung around, still stuck as little boys, or would we have just shrugged it all off and decided to fling ourselves into the Great Beyond?"

Sam watched him until Dean turned his head and caught him doing it.

"Whut?"

"Nothing," Sam said quickly, looking back at the dash of the car. "I…" He thought about it. "Nothing." He looked out of his window, and it was quiet again for some moments. "Kids shouldn't really have died of pneumonia in the eighties," he muttered to himself. "And the records for cremations that I found were a little jigged…"

"So?" Dean asked, apparently beyond caring, judging by his tone. He caught the street sign for the hotel and turned left, sliding the car toward the entrance for the hotel.

"So there's something here that doesn't fit," Sam muttered to himself.

"Whut the--. You think?" Dean said suddenly, and Sam looked up through the front windscreen to find the hotel surrounded by police and an ambulance. Dean stopped the car as they watched two paramedics wheel a bodybag down to the waiting van.

They got out of the car quickly, looking round. Sam spotted Lucy in the crowds of people watching and hurried over. Dean found himself next to a police officer and turned away slightly. But he listened.

"Yeah, another jumper," the officer was saying into his radio. "Another goddamn jumper. Why they do it here beats me. Time of death has been put at about twenty minutes ago."

Dean sidled away smartly, noticing Sam's head in the crowd coming towards him. They stopped just outside the circle of watchers, eyes wide with discovery as they each took a deep breath.

"Dude, it wasn't Kevin," they said together.

* * *

**_This one turned out a little more angsty than I expected, sorry!_**


	7. Chapter 7

**SEVEN**

Sam and Dean stood in the night air, quietly chilled by their wet clothes as Lucy hugged onto Patrick tightly.

"He's upset," she explained over the boy's head. "He saw the man pass him in the corridor, asked him if he was ok. The man – Mr Froud – said he was fine, that everything was fine." She stopped and took a deep breath.

"Lucy, we can talk about this later," Sam said gently, putting a hand on her arm. "I think you two should go inside out of the rain."

"Yeah, I think we will," she said vaguely, then looked down at her son still clinging to her desperately. "Come on Patrick, let's get some hot drinks, eh?"

He turned with her and they walked off.

Dean looked around the circle of people watching and lollygagging, and suddenly felt the light drizzle more keenly than ever before. He shivered, looking round again at the hotel and then up to the top floor.

Sam looked up too, thinking.

"So it's Andrew," he said, and Dean nodded uncomfortably.

"Hate to say it, but it looks that way," he said glumly, and Sam looked at him.

"You don't want it to be the dad?"

"No, I do not want it to be the dad," Dean sighed. "Just seems wrong."

"What, that a dead man with two sons should be killing people?" Sam smiled. "How very sentimental of you."

"Ok then, Badly Drawn Parallel Boy," he sniffed, "answer me this. Why kill this dude? And why does he wait so long between gankings? Why not just hurl some poor bastard off the roof every night?"

"Maybe cos… he knows if he does that, the place might get closed down, and he'd be trapped here without anyone to throw?" Sam shrugged.

"True. Good grasp of business, these spirits," Dean observed.

"Excuse me, Bon?" came a voice. "Is it Bon?"

Dean turned and found a tall, blond lady watching him.

"Does he owe anyone money?" he asked pleasantly.

"No," she grinned, folding her arms over her long raincoat.

"Is he wanted for murder?" he asked politely.

"No," she chuckled, her green eyes bright with amusement.

"Then it's me, sweetheart. What can I do for you?" Dean asked with heart-stopping charisma.

She stepped forward and slapped him soundly about the face. Sam took a step back, putting a hand up to hide his guilty grin at Dean's expense. He coughed to cover the little laugh that was trying to make itself heard as Dean rubbed his face and hissed.

"That's for doing Reinette's fan-belt when you should have been checking my stick-shift," she said archly.

Dean's mouth opened but nothing came out.

"She and I had an agreement - and she jumped the queue," she added, then appeared to relax. "Although… I can understand why. You'll be free tomorrow evening? To see to my gearbox?" she asked much more charitably. Sam's laugh died abruptly.

"I – ah – could be," Dean managed.

Sam's eyes leapt into a waiting cab and it hared off at top speed, tyres squealing round corners, the eyes desperate to complete the lap round the Eye Sockets Block while they still had the impetus. As they waved a hundred bucks at the driver to make him go faster, they whipped out their iPhone and activated the SSH, hacking into Sam's respiratory system and forcing a huff of monumental proportions from the human body.

The cab screeched to halt and the eyes hopped back out, congratulating the driver on a perfectly fast, perfectly executed circumnavigation at such high speed.

"Good," Reinette was saying with a large smile, putting her hand in her pocket and pulling out her purse. She opened it and withdrew a card, handing it to him. "Don't get lost. Reinette mentioned you're good with your tools, and my gears tend to stick. She raved about the fantastic job you did on her fan-belt, so this should be right up your street," she winked.

She turned and swished away in her long raincoat, leaving Sam and Dean to stare after her.

"I don't believe it," Sam tutted, shaking his head.

"Neither do I," he said dryly, "her car's an automatic."

Sam turned and thumped his shoulder. Dean chuckled a decidedly dirty chuckle and walked into the hotel.

* * *

After hot showers and quick changes into warm, dry clothes, Dean snatched up the car keys and looked at Sam.

"Right. You stay here and get what you can from Patrick and Lucy. I'm going to burn this freaky father before he does this again," he said decisively.

"Hey look – I wish it wasn't him, too. But this time we're just going to have to go with the facts," Sam said suddenly. Dean looked at him.

"Really? Well thanks for letting your heart bleed all over my shoes, Emo Boy. I have to go dig up some mouldy corpse - in the rain," he grumped smartly.

"You've got the map?" Sam asked with a smile.

"Yup. It's going to be an hour driving there at least, then digging and burning time, then the drive back." He looked at his watch. "It's pushing three now. I might be back by eight," he tutted. "See? I told you we'd be glad of that nap before we started all this."

"Yeah," Sam sighed. "Just be careful. I'll see what I can find here."

"Pull them eyes on Patrick, he'll tell you everything," he winked, picking up his duffle and walking out of the door.

Sam sat back on the sofa, looking round the room. He got up and went to his laptop, opening it and checking some mail before he started searching for some connection between the three dead men.

* * *

It was a very grubby, sweaty and weary Dean that pulled the Impala back into the hotel parking lot. He pulled himself out with the last of his strength and leaned on the car with a sigh, locking the door. He looked at his watch, found it almost seven in the morning, and had to congratulate himself on achieving everything he had just done an hour ahead of his estimate.

He pushed the keys into his dirty jeans pocket, walking to the door of the hotel. His phone suddenly blared his favourite ringtone and he pulled it out, opening it up quickly.

"Mornin'," he mumbled.

"Did you get him?" Sam demanded. Dean lifted the phone away from his face to cast it a disgusted look caused by his brother's tone. He put it back to his ear.

"Yeah, I got him," he said defensively. "Why else would I be covered in mud and ready to fall down where I stand?"

"Ok, ok," Sam said desperately, and there was a silence.

"Why? What's happened?"

"You're not going to believe this," Sam said gingerly.

"Aw shit - another one?" Dean demanded.

"Another one - jumped straight off the roof. What time did you get done?" he asked quickly.

Dean looked at his wrist wearily, muttering to himself as he worked something out. "About… gotta be about five a.m. Does that help us?"

There was a silence, then a long sigh.

"That ain't good, is it?" Dean grumbled. "Come on Sam, what is it?"

"Jumper was nearer to six a.m."

"Aw for--" Dean launched into a tirade of the longest string of expletives Sam had ever heard in a single sentence.

"Dean! Dean! Hello!" Sam called, trying to get his attention.

"Whut now? Who else could it be?" Dean raged. "I mean, come on, man!"

"I know, I know… But there is some good news," he said quickly.

"Whut? What's the good news?" Dean demanded hotly.

"I've found a connection between the dead men," he blurted.

"I thought there wasn't one?"

"Well there is."

Dean took a deep breath, turning away from the hotel entrance and the couple casting him strange looks. He wandered back to the car as he spoke. "So what is it?"

"They were all men, we know that. What we didn't know, what wasn't reported in the papers, is that each of them had sons – or at least, one son. And I don't know if this is important, but they'd all cheated on their wives at some point."

"Right right right – so was Andrew tied up in this or not?" Dean pressed.

"Well there's no evidence he cheated on Lydia, his wife… It was the other way round."

"Please tell me he had _something_ to do with this Sammy, cos I've just spent a good portion of quality shut-eye time digging him up and toasting him."

"Ahh… I don't think it was him. These jumpers did what he did, sure, but he doesn't really fit the pattern himself - he didn't cheat on anyone," he said gingerly.

Dean felt his teeth grind slowly. "You sure?"

"Ah... no, but there's someone here right now and he's not happy."

"Yeah? Well I ain't exactly Mr Peachy maself," Dean snapped. "Who is it?"

"Someone who should know."

"I don't give a shit if it's the second coming of Joey Ramone - how the hell does he know--"

"Because… because it's a boy," Sam interrupted. "And he's staring at me, Dean. He's just… _staring_."

Dean snapped the phone shut and hurried through the doors to the hotel, ignoring everyone as he jogged to the lifts and leaned on the button until the door opened. He jumped in and pushed his floor, holding his finger on the button to stop anyone else halting the lift as it climbed to the twenty-fifth level.

He whipped out and down the hall, stopping and banging on the door.

"Sammy? Let me in," he called.

The door opened and Dean looked past his brother to the little boy on the bed. He barged in and the small, wiry boy sitting on the bed sat a little straighter.

"He's been here for about half an hour. I've been trying to talk to him, but he just sits and watches me. I don't even know if he can hear me," Sam shrugged, his nervousness palpable.

Dean stared at him in curiosity, seeing it was not the same boy as before. He took in the short, wavy brown hair, the cheerful brown eyes, the little face that had suddenly taken an interest when Dean walked in. Suddenly he threw himself off the bed and ran at Dean, raising his little fists and battering at him repeatedly.

"Ooof! Hey! Be careful what you thump!" Dean cried quickly, grabbing his wrists and holding him away from him with ease. The boy twisted and struggled, and Sam watched, bemused.

"He doesn't seem to like you much," he said smugly.

"I guessed that, thanks," Dean snapped. The boy stopped struggling to get free and just let his head hang, panting for pseudo-breath. Dean let him go slowly, watching him back up and pull his t-shirt straight sullenly.

"You ok now, kid?" he asked sternly. "Want another go at me? No? Why don't you sit down and stop attacking people who are only here to help you."

The boy heaved a sigh, turning and walking back to the bed. He jumped on and got comfortable, letting his feet dangle over the side. Sam folded his arms, fascinated.

Dean pulled up the chair next to the bed and sat down, watching him.

"Jimmy. It is Jimmy, right?" he asked. James Menchelli nodded sulkily. Sam blinked.

"Why's he's listening to you and not me?" he asked, walking over and crouching in front of the boy to watch him. He in turn looked from one Winchester to the other, then pointed at Sam before tapping his own chest.

Dean nodded. "Yeah. He's the little one, same as you," he said shortly. Sam looked at him, confused, then back at James. "So Jimmy… why are you here?"

James' little face turned a shade sadder and he looked around the room slowly. Dean leaned forward, his elbows on his knees.

"Jimmy. This is important. Where's Martin? Why isn't he here?" he asked quietly.

James pouted and his eyes reddened.

"Has something happened to Martin?"

James folded his arms, sniffing and looking away.

"Jimmy, tell us. We can help you – we took care of Kevin, he's not coming back," he said firmly. James turned and looked at him, his face turning angry. He pointed at Dean harshly, then tapped his own chest before lifting a hand and indicating someone or something tall. He looked at Sam, jabbing a finger at him, before miming his hand talking, then pointing again at Dean. Then he closed his hand into a fist, flicking his thumb up and down repeatedly.

"Oh. Crap," Dean said heavily, letting his head fall into his hand with conviction.

"What?" Sam asked quickly. "What's he doing?"

"I've just dug up his dad," Dean said slowly, then looked up at James slowly. "Jimmy, I'm sorry – I thought he was hurting people," he said thickly. "Do you believe me?"

James pouted and shook his head.

"We knew it was Kevin or your dad – we didn't know which one, we had to be sure," Dean said earnestly. "We did Kevin first. We thought it was him," he said quickly. James heaved a sigh and his eyes went red again. "I'm sorry, kid, I really am," Dean said, his anguish searingly manifest. "I'm sorry."

James sniffed and looked at the window instead of the two brothers. Dean watched him, and Sam looked from one to the other, biting his lip.

"Ahh… So, not to ignore the gravity of this situation, but… if it's not Kevin, and it's not their dad… Who is it?" he asked quietly.

"I don't know, man," Dean said angrily, getting to his feet and walking to the other side of the room. He pulled off his muddy coat and equally muddy shirt, looking down at the t-shirt and trying to think about something other than what he'd just done.

Sam got up slowly, watching James.

"James," he asked quietly. "James, who else have you seen?"

James simply huffed, continuing to look out of the window. Dean looked over, then took a step forward.

"Martin said there were four of you here – is he right? Cos now there are just two, Jimmy, you and him. Does that mean it's you and your brother throwing people off roofs? Are you doing this?" he demanded angrily. Sam looked at him.

"Little harsh—"

"I don't _care_!" Dean shouted, and James looked over at him, surprised. "I _don't_ care! I believed these two were good kids, I thought they were the innocent ones in all this! But what do we find now?" he demanded, looking at James. "Have you two been doing this all along? Cos I'm telling you now, son, if you been yanking our chains since the jump that Magic 8-Ball is going straight in the hotel incinerator and you two move right on to wherever it is you go! _You understand me?_" he roared.

_As long as we live, I am never telling him he's never looked or sounded more like Dad than right now_, Sam realised.

James jumped up off the bed, running to Sam's duffle. The two men watched him upend it and find the ball, clutching it desperately.

"So it _is_ about the ball, is it?" Dean demanded.

But James ran over, handing it out to Dean quickly. Dean paused, but then reached out and took it suspiciously.

"Why do you want me to have it?" he asked, eyes narrowed. James looked up at him, hope on his little face, and Dean felt the past day's - and night's - events catch up with him in a big way. His shoulders sagged and exhaustion pushed most of his anger aside. "So are you going to explain now?" he asked wearily.

James blinked up at him, very apologetic, and then chucked a thumb at the chair. Dean snorted with amusement as if it were all too much, walking back over and sitting down. Sam went to the sofa, watching the boy carefully.

James jumped up on the bed, getting comfortable. He put up four fingers and Dean nodded, waving him to carry on. But James shook the four fingers at him. Then he tapped his own chest, before putting his hand out to indicate someone a little taller than him.

"Martin," Sam concluded. James nodded, then lifted his hand higher.

"Dad," Dean managed. James nodded sullenly, not looking at Dean as he raised his hand again.

"Kevin?" Sam hazarded. James shook his head. Dean and Sam exchanged a glance.

"Martin said it was Kevin," Dean pointed out. James screwed up his face, shaking his head. Then he pointed at Dean and tapped his temple, shaking his head again. "Hey come on, it was the best I could do with no sound, kid."

James simply huffed, unimpressed, and looked at Sam. He tapped his left eye, then scratched at his chin.

"Someone with a bad eye and a beard," he said slowly.

"Martin said the same," Dean confirmed. James looked at him, then tapped himself and lifted his hand again. "Dad?" Dean hazarded, and James nodded. He put his arms round himself, shaking and hiding his head.

Sam and Dean exchanged an uneasy glance.

James let go, indicating someone taller and tapping his eye and beard again. He raised in hands like claws, his small face angry. Then he retreated to hugging himself, shaking and burying his head in his arms crossed around him.

Sam felt nothing but a shedload of confusion and looked at his brother. But Dean's face had drained of colour.

"What?" Sam asked. "I don't get it."

"This fourth person, whoever he is," Dean managed, still watching James hug himself and hide his head, sniffing. "Must be some real scary dude. These two are bricking it cos he's around. But their dad was protecting them from him. So… now I've burnt him to a very small crisp, there's no-one to stop this spirit from doing whatever he wants to these kids."

* * *

_**More tomorrow... got to get this up before I move flats...**_


	8. Chapter 8

**EIGHT**

Sam stood slowly, looking at James. "James… Who is it? Who are you scared of?" he asked gently. James looked up at him with a fearful expression.

"Does Martin know?" Dean interrupted. "Where is he?"

James lifted a hand and made a general circular motion, shrugging. Dean thought about it. "Jimmy… why do we only see one of you two boys at once?"

James looked at him, then pointed at him and mimicked a big yawn. Dean blinked.

"Either we bore you, or it takes too much energy," he said dryly. James nodded and Dean shrugged. "Right. Well we're no closer to who's doing this than before," he said, getting up and walking to the window.

James got up off the bed and Sam watched him walk up behind Dean. He put a hand out and tapped his wrist. Dean looked down at him, surprised he was there. James pulled on his wrist and made him turn round, then tapped the 8-ball still in his right hand.

"Is that yours? Or Martin's?" Sam asked, intrigued.

James shook his head. Dean looked at him, then lifted it and looked at it carefully.

"Ho-ly crap," he breathed, surprised. Then he looked at Sam. "I don't believe it."

"What?" Sam asked.

"This isn't the boys' 8-ball," Dean said, grinning suddenly and looking at James. "It's not yours, is it? It can't be yours!"

James folded his arms, tapping his foot.

"Why can't it be theirs?" Sam asked quickly. Dean lifted the ball and turned it round to a very small copyright print underneath.

"Because it's made by Mattel," he grinned.

Sam blinked. "And…?" he prompted.

"And Mattel didn't make them in the early eighties – Tyco did," Dean grinned.

"How do you even _know_ that?" Sam blurted, completely lost. Dean just looked at him.

"Hey, you do boring-ass paintings, I know long-lost secrets of the toy world," he admitted. Then he looked down at James. "This isn't yours, it belonged to your dad, right?"

James shook his head, and Dean's face fell.

Sam cleared his throat. "If it doesn't belong to the boys, how are they still here?" he asked lightly. Dean scowled at him.

"Right now I don't care – one thing at once, Sammy. Let's just find out who this belongs to," he said.

"And how the hell are we supposed to do that?" he asked flatly. "What do we have to go on?"

James tapped Dean's wrist again, and he ceased his further inspection of the ball to look down at him. He tapped his left eye, then scratched at his chin again, and Dean looked at Sam.

"Some tall, freaky dude with a bad eye and crappy beard," he shrugged. "Right, squirt?" he asked the small spirit boy. He grinned and nodded.

"So it has to be a man who died in this hotel at some point, and it happened sometime after the boys and their family died," Sam concluded slowly.

"Aw no," Dean sighed, looking at his younger brother. "Does this mean we have to go back to the library?"

"Yeah," Sam grinned. Dean looked down at James.

"We gotta go do stuff," he pointed out. "Go find your brother, tell him we're doing what we can. And, ah…" He paused, then wet dry lips before crouching down in front of the small boy. "Look… Jimmy… I'm sorry about your dad. I really am."

James sighed, then just shrugged, his eyes on the carpet. Dean straightened up again, turning to go. James leapt forward and grabbed his hand in both of his, squeezing.

"Oh hey, come on," Dean said, surprised, casting a blatant '_help me_' look at Sam. "We'll stop this dude before he can find you again. I promise, Jimmy."

The boy let him go, looking up at him. He nodded once, and then simply vanished.

Dean looked over at Sam, lifting his hands in confusion. Sam smiled and walked over to his jacket, picking it up.

"Let's go," Sam said easily. "The sooner we find out who's doing this, the sooner we can stop him."

* * *

Five hours in the public library did nothing to advance the situation, and it was a bored Sam and a positively bone-dead Dean that gave it up as a bad job as the clock showed four in the afternoon.

"I just can't find anything here," Sam pointed out. "It doesn't make any sense."

"Yeah well. I haven't slept in twenty-four hours and I can't remember the last time we ate. I vote we hole the boys up in our room with some shotguns and just blow the head off anything trying to harm 'em," Dean yawned.

"Yeah great," Sam replied. "Except we can't see them to protect them both at the same time, remember?"

"Well maybe they can be in the room but invisible," he shrugged.

"Then so can our mystery miscreant," Sam argued.

"You know what? I'm too tired to argue with you, Sammy. Let's just get back to the room. I'm going to fall over if I don't get a nap in before darkness hits."

"Fair enough," Sam nodded, getting to his feet. He waited for Dean to push himself up out of the chair and followed him out.

Sam drove them back to the hotel, Dean's head already bobbing up and down as he fought to stay awake. He pulled into the parking lot and drifted the car into a spot near the door, leaving the engine running. He turned to find Dean dozing with his head against the window.

"Hey," he said gently, nudging his arm. Dean's head shot up and he looked around, panicked. He realised there was no fire and rubbed an eye. "I'll go get more salt. You must have used all we had on Andrew Menchelli. You go up to the room," Sam added quietly.

"Might just do that," Dean yawned, climbing out of the car. Sam watched him walk into the hotel, then shook his head and reversed out of the space, turning her round to the road.

Dean pulled himself into the lift and leaned on the rear wall, waiting impatiently for it to reach the right floor. He stumbled out and walked to the door, slotting his keycard in and out before pushing the door open.

He peeled off his jacket, closing the door with his foot as he dropped it to the chair. He yawned and managed to make it to the bed before sitting heavily. He thought about taking off his boots before falling over on his back and feeling his eyes close gratefully.

Something nudged his arm and he opened an eye. Martin was looking down at him from directly over his face.

"Oh, it's you," he managed. "No offence kid, but I really have to sleep. I'll get up later and me and Sammy are doing shifts. We're gonna stop this guy from… coming… near… you," he yawned. Martin poked his side and he jolted in surprise. "Cut that out!" he growled. "Let me sleep." Martin poked again and he sat up slowly, eyeing him. "Whut?" he demanded.

Martin gestured with his thumb to the other side of the bed, and Dean frowned at him. Martin tutted silently, then used both hands to motion him across the bed.

"I don't believe this," Dean sighed, putting his hands down and shifting himself across the bed to one side. "All I wanna do is sleep for about forty years. Can I at least get forty minutes?" he grumbled to himself, lying back down.

Martin smiled, climbing on the bed next to him and settling down. He crossed his legs and folded his arms, looking round the room. Dean opened his eyes to see Martin watching the room cautiously, and something made him smile. He sat up slowly, unbuttoning his heavy shirt.

"You looking out for me while I sleep? Is that it?" he teased. Martin nodded decisively, and Dean smiled to himself, shaking his head. He pulled off his shirt and turned to lie out on his front, pushing his hands under the pillow. He took a deep breath and blew it out, but he was already asleep before it was done.

* * *

Sam pulled into the parking lot, the Impala smelling rather pleasantly of a mixture of hot drinks. He carried the brown bag containing salt and the cardboard carrier built for the two hot drinks, finding Lucy at the reception desk.

"Hey Lucy," he said brightly. "How's Patrick?"

"He's better," she said, "thanks for asking, Brian. He was just a little spooked, I think. But he's had time to calm down now. Do you not like the room service?" she asked with a smile, pointing to the carrier of drinks in his hand.

"Oh – no – it's not that," he said quickly. "It's just that my brother – he's addicted to Starbuck's hot chocolate," he said. "You wouldn't know it to look at him, but he's a pain in the ass to feed sometimes."

"Your brother?" she prompted. Sam's face fell.

"Oh! Well, yeah," he said. "Adopted," he added quickly.

"I see. That explains a few things," she said thoughtfully.

"Yeah. Only found his real parents last year. Life-changing," he nodded dismissively.

"Well you get back up there and make sure he calls room service for something to eat," she said. "And tell him from me, he needs to sleep more. He looked dreadful when he came in this afternoon," she nodded.

"Yeah, I know. We've just been so excited, seeing all this place," he said, and she waved at him.

"Oh go on you, get that to him," she said. "We do pizza too, tell him."

"Thanks, I will," he said with a smile, walking off toward the lifts.

He pressed the button and waited patiently for the lift to arrive. The smell from the warm cardboard drinks carrier was starting to make his nose twitch longingly. The doors opened and he walked in quickly, pressing the floor button and resting back.

The doors closed and he sniffed, looking forward to calling room service and ordering several pizzas. He was sure he could eat all of one all by himself, never mind Dean and his seemingly hollow legs. He watched the doors of the lift as it swept upward, his mind wandering over the names, dates, facts and people he'd looked up over the last day in the library.

The lift stopped and the doors opened slowly, and he pushed himself out of the tiny metal box and into the corridor. He walked along, his mind already worrying about how to get his keycard out with his hands full. He grasped the drinks holder and bag containing the salt sack in one hand, searching for the card with his left. He found it in his pocket but it tumbled through his fingers to the carpet.

The drinks unbalanced and he let the keycard drop to grab the cups before they fell. He steadied the plethora of handles and edges in his hand, then looked down at the card on the carpet. He sighed, then grabbed everything in both hands to lower them to the floor. He picked up the keycard, clamped it in his teeth, then picked everything back up again.

He straightened and was just congratulating himself on a job well done when his eyes swept across the wall in front of him.

And the photographs.

He gasped in surprise and the card fell from his mouth to the floor again. He let it go, grabbing onto everything carefully. He walked over the fallen card and looked more closely at the colour photograph, taken in 1998 in the foyer of the hotel.

Then he scrabbled for the card. He turned and sprinted for the room. He got the door open in record time.

"Dean! Dean! Wake up!" he called, kicking the door shut behind him. He dropped the bags and carriers to the table and grabbed up his laptop.

Dean was stretched out on his front on the right side of the bed. To say he ignored Sam would be to imply he could have heard him. He was much too deeply asleep for that.

Sam ripped open the laptop and plugged in the power quickly, muttering to himself.

"I can't believe we didn't check – of all the stupid–" He waited impatiently for Windows to start, then quickly hammered at the right keys. He was so busy checking what he could read that he didn't hear the soft footsteps on the carpet behind him. He felt a hand on his elbow and huffed. "Dean, look at this, we have to—"

He looked round to find it was Martin. He put his finger to his lips but Sam scowled at him.

"Look, Martin – yeah, Dean's asleep. But I need him to wake up right now. I know who the scary man is – look," he said quickly, turning the computer for him to see. Martin looked at the computer, surprised. "Is this him?"

Martin stared at the man, taking in the glasses that had one clear lens and one black, the scratchy beard and smiling face. He swallowed in fear and looked up at Sam. He nodded once.

"He's _nothing at all_ to do with your family, is he?" Sam demanded quickly. "He came after, right? You and your brother, and your dad, you were all here. Your dad kept an eye on you, looked after you, cos your mom never did, am I right?" he gabbled.

Martin nodded sadly.

"That's why you died of complications from pneumonia – your mom wasn't looking out for you. And then the three of you – you, James and your dad – you were waiting for your mom to show, right? But she never did – because she was cremated! She's never coming, Martin, I'm sorry," he said quickly. "But then it got worse – you saw all the bad things people did here, right? You and James, you only played pranks on people, you were harmless. But your dad did a bad thing here, didn't he?"

Martin's lip trembled and he looked away, toward the bed.

"Didn't he?" Sam pressed, desperate. "Your dad saw something one night, in this hotel, years after you all died - and he couldn't help himself. He couldn't stand by and let someone else do the bad things your mother had done to him. So he stopped the man, the married man, from cheating on his wife. He pushed him out of the window, didn't he?" he demanded.

Martin's eyes reddened and he began to turn away.

"_Didn't he?_" Sam cried angrily. "Martin, I need to know! It wasn't your dad doing all this to the other men, it wasn't his fault – he was angry, he was upset, he was hurt – it could have happened to anyone!" Sam said urgently.

Martin swallowed and turned back to look at him.

"Did he push this man out the window? _Did he kill Richard Backet?_"

Martin nodded once, a single tear breaking from his eye. Sam looked back at the laptop quickly.

"I know where to find Richard Backet, Martin. I can stop him forever. In a few hours this will all be over, and you and your brother will be safe from him," he said quickly. "Do you understand?"

Martin nodded.

"Good. You wake Dean, you stay with him, he'll protect you. I need to take his car and go find Richard's remains," he said quickly. Martin suddenly reached out and grabbed Sam's arm. "It'll be ok, Martin," he said quickly.

But Martin pulled on his arm urgently, yanking. Sam turned and followed his pull, and Martin stabbed a pointed finger back to the bed. Sam looked over.

Dean was gone.


	9. Chapter 9

**NINE**

He stood in the lift, watching the inside of the doors as it flew up the two levels to the roof access. He smiled to himself, whistling slightly as he watched the floor numbers go up.

"Nearly there," he said cheerfully, nodding. The lift stopped and the doors opened, and he walked out with a spring in his step. "Well come on then, we don't have all night," he said pleasantly, waving his hand.

"Don't have…" Dean managed from inside the lift, his eyes stuck open. His boots shuffled forward slowly, as if unsure in which direction they should be heading.

"Trust me, in a very short while, all of your worries will just float away," the spirit of Richard Backet said nicely, putting his hand to Dean's elbow and pulling him out of the lift. "I know you worry. I know you're upset about leaving poor Sam and all that tiresome work you do. But put it this way, very soon you won't have to worry any more."

"Won't have to worry," Dean muttered, letting the spirit pull him along the corridor. The lift doors closed behind them.

"That's right, you won't have to worry. Poor Dean – you always worry, don't you? And you still hurt for your dad, don't you? I know – I've seen what you think about when you're asleep. I've seen what goes through your head whether you want it to or not, when you think you're sleeping. You see? I know all these things. It was so lucky that you fell asleep like that, or I never would have had a chance to help you out like this," he carried on earnestly.

"Help," Dean echoed.

"That's right, I'm only going to help you. I know you're still upset over dear old Dad. How he was taken away like that, leaving so suddenly just when you'd finally found him. You realised it could never be as you wanted it. How upsetting," he commiserated. "How distressing. And it was so unfair."

"Unfair," Dean whispered to himself. They walked on.

"And now it's Sam that you worry about, isn't it?" he added, walking on to the end of the corridor. The door was locked, but Richard put a hand out and snapped the padlock clean off the handle with no apparent effort. "All day, all night, Sam is all you worry about. It's like he's all you've got, isn't it?" he sympathised.

"All I've got," Dean whispered, his eyes jammed wide, his feet shuffling, shuffling, following where he was led.

"But don't you worry any more," Richard said confidently. "I can show you how to stop worrying. I can show you how to free your mind, as it should really be. And all this will just go away."

"Free," Dean sighed, and for a second his eyes almost blinked. Richard put a hand out, opening the door and finding the roof beyond.

"Here we are," he said cheerfully. "Just look at that view!" he smiled.

Dean was pulled out through the door and was walked slowly across the roof, guided round pipes as they made their way round huge HVAC cupboards.

"Wow, look at that!" Richard breathed, pulling Dean's shoulder to follow him. Dean stumbled and he grasped him firmly. "Careful, son," he said quickly. "Not yet."

"Not yet," Dean breathed.

"See the view? How beautiful is that?" he asked. Dean looked out, his eyes stuck fast on the horizon. The night lights and evening noises drifted up around them, the wind too chilling for the simple t-shirt the young Winchester was wearing. He shivered, and blinked suddenly.

"Whut–?" he managed.

"Sshh," Richard said quickly. "Just think. Think of poor old Dad, and all those people you don't have. Think of all the people that use you and cast you aside every day," he said sadly. "Think of all the times you've had no-one to rely on but yourself. You have no-one, Dean. No-one."

"No-one," Dean whispered.

"No-one. So no-one will miss you when you fly over the city. No-one will mind, or even remember, that you were ever here." He smiled. "I know. I've seen so many people come and go, and no-one ever cares about them. Me included," he added sourly.

Dean swayed a little, his shivering stopping completely.

"And see down there? Your beautiful car," Richard said, pointing over the edge under their feet. "What a lovely example of workmanship. And you've kept her going all this time, loved her, looked after her, kept her fixed and washed - even rebuilt her, right? And who else has ever cared?" he asked. "Hmm? No-one."

"No-one," Dean sighed.

"Who have you got in this life?"

"No-one," Dean repeated, his eyes unseeing.

"That's right. You do realise that once you fly, you can see everyone you miss. You'll be with Dad again, and I'm pretty sure Sam will be following you very soon. You'll be with Dad, what you always wanted."

"Dad," Dean managed, his eyes straining to blink.

"And what about Mom? Do you think she'll be happy to see you again? Of course!"

"Mom," he whispered.

"That's right, Mom and Dad, waiting for you. Together."

"Together," Dean whispered. He blinked suddenly, his face abruptly able to frown. "Together?"

"Together," Richard nodded knowingly. He put his hands on Dean's shoulders, urging him forwards, closer to the edge of the building. "Together, waiting for you."

"Together?" Dean repeated faintly. "Together?"

"Yes," Richard said soothingly. "And all you have to do to see them again is fly, son. Just fly."

"Mom and Dad," Dean whispered. His eyes creased at the sides. Richard fought down impatience.

"They're waiting for you."

"Not together," Dean realised. "_Not_ together."

"Yes, of course they are," he pressed. "Together, happy, waiting for you in that lovely, shiny place—"

"Mom – but. Dad – waiting for me. Dad."

"Dad," Richard said cheerfully. "That's right. Just take another step, son, and all this will go away. All this work, and worry, and sadness - it'll all go away."

"Dad. H – Hell," Dean suddenly said.

Richard paused. "What?" he asked warily.

"Mom – not… in Hell." He paused. "Mom could never be in Hell," he added, sounding much more lucid. He turned his head suddenly, his eyes blinking a few times. "What am I doing up—"

"Goddamn! Every other sleep-walker has worked, why not you?" Richard snapped angrily.

"Richard Backet!" someone shouted from behind them. He turned quickly, grabbing onto Dean desperately. He yanked him in front of him, holding the very much alive and confused Winchester by his upper arms to cover him.

"Sam! I should have known – I should have known you'd be the smart one!" he called out.

Sam darted forward. He raised the shotgun in his hands and levelled it at him, his jaw sticking out at a dangerous angle.

"Let him go!" he called.

"Not on his life," Richard grinned from behind Dean. "He's been a bad boy, he deserves to fly, like they all did!"

"Like you did?" Sam demanded. Dean yanked at his arms but Richard's fingers dug in like ice.

"Yes, like I did!" he said. "Poor Andrew – he never knew what he did for me! And then Dean here finished him off for me. I should thank you really – without you two I would have had so much trouble finding his two boys and putting them out of their misery."

"Oh you've got to be kidding me," Dean growled, pulling on his arms desperately. "You're a serial killer that ganks ghosts?"

"Ghosts, people, what's the difference?" Richard laughed, yanking Dean to stop struggling against his far superior grip. "Ghosts are just people that were. Or people that can't let go," he snorted in contempt. "Much like I suspect you will be in about two minutes," he added to Dean.

"Hate to disappoint you, pal, but there's a whole queue of evil sons of bitches waiting to tear holes in _my_ soul. You'll have to take a ticket," he growled, still wrenching at his arms. "Tell you whut, why don't you come with me?"

Richard looked up at Sam. "Care to watch me push him over?"

"Like you pushed that man - and Mr Froud yesterday? Michael Brown before him? Stephen Petrie?" Sam accused. "What would poor Lucy say if she saw you now?"

"She's scream, faint, do all those girlie things," Richard shrugged. "As if I give a shit what happens to her."

"You _selfish_ bastard," Dean grunted, pulling. "She's living on her own, raising your own kid! By herself! And you're killing people in her hotel! How's she going to live and look after Patrick when this place gets shut down?" he demanded.

"She'll survive. She always was a single-minded bitch," he shrugged. "Why do you think I was having an affair in the first place?"

"You son of a bitch," Dean fumed.

"You don't even care what happens to Patrick?" Sam demanded. "Your own son, and you don't care what happens to him?"

"Oh he'll survive, he's a good boy," he said dismissively. "So what are you going to do with that gun, Sam? Shoot me?"

"Shoot him, Sam!" Dean shouted angrily.

"Yes, shoot your brother, and hope whatever you've got loaded in there will go through him and somehow get me too!" Richard called.

"Shoot him, Sam!" Dean growled.

"But I'll hit you!" Sam argued fearfully.

"_Shoot – him!_" Dean roared.

"Oh this is good," Richard beamed. "Yes! Shoot the ghost! Shoot him! Shoot him!" he called, laughing maniacally.

"But you're on the edge!" Sam called at his brother, his anger adding thickness to his voice.

"Trust me! Listen to me and just _shoot – the – goddamn – spirit!_" Dean shouted.

Sam looked at him, then Richard.

"Oooh, now we get to it – will Sam shoot his brother? Or will I throw him first?"

"Sam! Trust me!" Dean shouted.

Sam took a deep breath. And fired.

The rock salt flew out of the shotgun as Richard laughed. He stepped back and pulled Dean with him.

But the salt pounded into Dean's front and shoved him backwards violently. Richard was pushed faster than he could manage. He let go of the human in surprise.

Dean tumbled over backwards. His boots scraped over the stone edge of the building. He slipped and slid.

And then he was gone.

Over the edge.

"_Dean!_" Sam heaved, pausing long enough to get off the second shot. Richard was still caught between trying to remain solid and panicking into a spirit. The salt hit the floating half-ghost straight in the chest. He dissolved into black smoke, swirling and dissipating quickly.

Sam ignored him, instead running to the edge and looking over swiftly. He stared.

"Little help?" Dean called up.

He was hanging by his hands from the canvas awning one floor down, swinging in the cold breeze, his boots a good twenty six floors from the ground. He looked down through his feet, was not impressed by the sight that greeted him, and looked up again.

"You – you bastard," Sam breathed in relief.

"Get me up before Hacker Backet come back!" he called shortly.

Sam grinned but then put his hands out, confused. "Just how am I supposed to do that?" he called down to him.

"Son of a –." Dean tutted at himself and swung his right boot round, trying to catch the awning.

"Higher!" Sam called helpfully.

"No, really?" Dean managed, with enough sarcasm to fill a zeppelin.

He swung himself further. His left hand gave and fell away, and Sam nearly had a heart attack. Then he realised Dean's boot was already hooked over the awning. He watched, his heart in his mouth, as Dean scrabbled and clawed his way to lie on top of the awning on his front, panting for dear life.

He rolled onto his back carefully and looked up, finding Sam. "Well get back to the room, then!" he called angrily, trying to sit without wobbling the canvas too much.

"What? Why?"

"Cos he's after the two boys! Get back there and hold him off till I get up from here."

"Dean – I can't leave you on a–"

"Goddamn it Sam, do as you're told!" Dean growled angrily, and Sam could have sworn it had been their father shouting those words at him. He shivered slightly. "We are not debating this! Now _get!_"

Sam swallowed, his mind's eye staring helplessly at the image of John Winchester pointing to an old bedroom door. He wiped it quickly and instead leaned over the side.

"I'm going. Be careful," he warned, then turned and ran from the roof.

Dean sighed as if relieved, looking to his left and spotting a drainpipe.

"Ohh, finally, a break in all this," he said to himself, satisfied. "If there's one thing I _can_ do, it's get down a drainpipe."


	10. Chapter 10

**TEN**

Sam pounded down the stairs from the roof and found the inside hallway again. He ran down, finding the storey stairs and flying down them three at a time. He smacked into the landing firmly and yanked open the door, finding himself back on the twenty-fifth floor. He searched for his keycard even as he tore down the corridor, finding their room.

He rammed the card in and shouldered the door open.

James was stood in the middle of the room, a silent scream twisting his little face into one of horror. Sam followed his gaze quickly.

Martin was dangling three feet above the floor, his trainers kicking for purchase. An unseen force had him by the throat. Martin's hands grabbed at whatever was holding him, trying desperately to pry it off.

Sam lifted the shotgun in his hand. He realised the spread would take out Martin too. He hesitated.

"What's the matter?" Richard's voice floated around the room. "Can't aim?"

Sam dropped the shotgun and ran for the sofa – and his duffle.

Martin was dumped unceremoniously to the carpet. James raced over to him. Sam upended his duffle, rifling through for the Taurus handgun specially loaded with salt.

Something grabbed him and lifted him up. He was flung back against the wall of the room. The pictures either side of him shook and fell to the carpet.

"So I can't spy on your dreams cos you're not sleeping," Richard's voice said genially. A cold hand gripped at Sam's neck. He struggled to find something to grab onto to defend himself, but the only solid shape was the hand itself. "But who needs to make you walk yourself out? Now we'll see just how far you can fly, young man."

Sam was lifted up slowly, sliding up the wall, jammed in place by the single disembodied hand.

There was a wooden scraping sound.

"Hey!" came an angry shout.

Sam blinked and saw Dean's head and arm struggling through the now open window.

"Oh," Richard's voice tutted, more disappointed than angry. "I thought you were dead."

"Been dead before," Dean managed. He lifted his other hand through the window and fired once.

Sam felt the heat and noise of the shot, the slight fine peppering of salt on his face. Then he was sliding down the wall and landing on his backside in the deep carpet.

"Sam, get up!" Dean called over.

Sam looked up to see his brother tumbling clumsily through the window in exactly the same way that graceful cat burglars do not. He climbed to his feet, his t-shirt a little grimy and his face and neck sheened with sweat.

"Come on, that bastard's already re-grouping," Dean added. He went to his bed, opening his duffle and searching through. "Martin! Jimmy! You stay close to me, you understand?" Dean called, finding the larger shotgun and pulling it free. There were no voices, no reply, but both men heard the sound of little feet before deep impressions appeared on the bed. "Sam, you gotta find the stiff and torch it."

Sam managed to get to his feet wearily, shaking his head to clear it a little. He went to his laptop, still running on the side table, and checked it over quickly.

"Got it," he said smartly. He turned and went back to the sofa, pushing everything he might possibly need back into the duffle. "You staying here?"

"I'm staying here. Someone has to look after these little guys while you're barbecuing, and I don't think they're gonna try leaving this room."

"Right," Sam nodded. He looked at him, watching him load the shotgun and fill his pockets with more salt cartridges. "Be careful," he added.

"And you. Don't let him stop you," he warned, turning to look at Sam with a face the younger sibling had come to recognise as _Calling For That Bastard's Cheque_. "He might try and come after you if he thinks it's more important. Don't you stop for anything, you hear me?" he instructed clearly.

"Yessir," Sam replied smartly. Then he realised it was his brother ordering him about, not his father.

Dean blinked, his hands pausing. "Sir?" he prompted, confused.

Sam thought quickly. "Ah… Joking, just joking," he shrugged, twisting his face into a defensive smile. He turned away quickly. Dean watched him walk out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

"Weirdo," he breathed to himself. He cast his gaze over the bed, noticing the two sets of impressions still there. "Right. Now that man is coming back – and that's bad, right?" he said sternly. Silence. "Ok. So you two stay close to me, and don't get in the way of this gun if I have to fire it," he added.

Martin faded into view before his eyes, and he blinked. The boy nodded solemnly, and Dean noticed his hands were clutched round something else, still invisible. He guessed it was Jimmy's hands.

"Good. Now this is where I do my _Gladiator_ speech and tell you that if we stick together, we have a better chance of getting through this alive." He paused. "Or at least, in existence," he added frankly.

Martin nodded, with almost the wisp of a smile on his face.

Dean nodded back, then pumped the shotgun full of salt.

"Alright then. Watch the room. If you see him, point."

* * *

Sam ignored the speedometer climbing past sixty miles an hour as he sped down the damp road. His eyes kept glancing to the rear view mirror and back to the road, hoping against hope no patrol cars would be out. After all, it was a small road with no traffic save an antique Chevrolet with more attitude than original parts in her.

He bit his lip, both hands on the wheel tightly, as he watched the miles tick away on the odometer. He cast a furtive glance at his Blackberry, sitting happily on the passenger side of the seat, then back at the road.

He noticed the sign speed past him and cursed himself for getting distracted.

_Was that five miles or fifteen?_ he asked himself. He flicked his eyes up to the rear view mirror, then back down to the road.

His foot steadily pushed down toward the floor. The Chevy passed seventy miles an hour.

* * *

Dean perched against the bed, the shotgun in both hands securely. He huffed through his nose, watching the room carefully.

"Come on, come on," he muttered impatiently.

There was a sudden tap on his shoulder and he turned to see. Martin was pointing at the fallen pictures on the opposite side of the room.

Dean noticed a depression in the carpet and simply aimed slightly higher. He fired.

There was silence.

"Come on, Richard," Dean called angrily. "You want to win by cheating? Not very sporting, is it?"

"Like I care."

Dean whipped around to look at the windows, certain of the direction.

"Of course you do – that's why you're here to take out the boys, right?" Dean dared. "Cos you have to get every last one, right?"

"You think you know about me?" the voice continued. Dean's eyes narrowed, following the sound round to his left.

"I know you cheated on your wife. I know you lied to her and made her life a misery," he challenged.

"You think _you_ can lecture _me_ on women?" Richard's voice laughed. "My dear boy – you've got a lot to realise. When I was your age, I was already married with a boy on the way."

"Lucky you," Dean managed.

"Pitiful me – I was trapped," Richard snapped. "Stuck in a town I hated, forced to marry a girl I didn't love, about to become a father to a child I never wanted. It was all downhill from there."

"You heartless son of a bitch," Dean snarled. "You know some people dream about getting what you had. And you let it slip away."

"Oh I didn't let it _slip_ away – I threw it," Richard's voice laughed. "I was hoping she'd find out about me and my sharing ways. You see, it wasn't just the one girl that one night – it was any good-looking lady that checked in. I chalked up a tally nearly as high as yours," he snorted.

Dean's eyes edged a little more to the left.

"Yeah? And then one night Andrew Menchelli saw you and couldn't stop himself. He threw you out of a window, you cruel bastard," he snapped.

"Yeah, he did," he snapped. "And I'll make his boys suffer for it."

"Like Hell you will," Dean growled. He whipped the shotgun round and fired toward the window.

* * *

Sam heaved himself out of the Impala and ran across the wet grass. He threw his duffle over the iron gates to the cemetery, grabbing the bars and scaling. He pulled himself up and over the top, wobbling and sliding down the other side.

He landed awkwardly but managed to stay upright, snatching up the duffle and opening it to find the flashlight. He popped it on and turned to the path, the beam of light bouncing and scattering across the sides of the thick strip of tarmac as he jogged toward the first set of graves.

"Come on, come on," he breathed, shining a light over the first few. He whipped around, reading, searching, hurrying through the stones to the next row.

"Should have checked the plot numbers," he hissed at himself in anger. "Come on, Richard, where are you?"

* * *

Dean swung the gun up again and trained it on the sound of something in the far corner of the room. There was a slight tap on his shoulder.

"I got it," he breathed quietly. Another tap. "This is not a good time for you to be silent, Martin."

A hand appeared over his shoulder and pointed toward the bathroom door.

"Sure?"

The hand stabbed again.

He fired.

The salt tore cross the room, spreading wide. It peppered the surface of the door. And a wisp of black smoke caught Dean's eye.

"Got him," he said grimly, snapping the shotgun open and reloading quickly. There was a pat on his back and he smiled grimly. "Don't get hopeful just yet. Sam's gotta burn him first."

There was a knocking sound and Dean left the other chamber empty. He snapped the gun shut quickly and lifted it at the door.

It opened and he squeezed against the trigger. A hand pushed at the barrel suddenly. The shot went wide, into the wardrobe.

Dean didn't even ask. He stared at Lucy as she stood in the doorway, staring in terror.

"What the hell—"

"Lucy, get over here!" he shouted angrily. "I nearly took your damn head off!"

She gulped and took a step backwards.

"Lucy! Trust me, this is not what it looks like! Now get over here, behind me, _now!_" Dean roared.

She took a hesitant step forward. The door slammed shut behind her and she gasped in fear. Dean snapped open the shotgun and began reloading both chambers. He looked up, hearing Lucy whimper.

She was a foot from the floor, dangling from Richard's hand.

"Let her go!" Dean shouted, snapping the gun shut and lifting it.

"What are you going to do, shoot both of us?" he said suavely.

Lucy grabbed at the hands round her throat, gasping in air.

"Hello, Lucy. Long time no see," Richard said. His head and body slowly materialised and he turned to her, poking his face into hers. She opened her mouth but no sound would come out. "I thought so," he sighed. "You always were spineless."

Dean dropped the shotgun to the bed and instead snatched the Colt 1911 from the back of his jeans. He closed one eye and simply fired.

The shot flew square through Richard's head. It impacted on the wall behind, spraying salt over him in a fine shower. He swirled and disappeared into black smoke. Lucy dropped to the carpet. Dean leapt up off the bed and ran to her, keeping a good hold on the handgun as he helped her up.

"Over to the bed, quickly," he hissed, helping her to stumble over. She collapsed on the covers, pulling herself up and onto it firmly.

"That was… that was Richard," she gasped. "How can it be Richard?"

"He's a ghost," Dean said shortly, pushing the safety back on the handgun and pushing it into the back of his jeans again. He picked up the shotgun, watching the room.

"A ghost?" she blurted. She squeaked in fear suddenly and Dean looked at her. She was kneeling on the bed, watching two small boys clutch at each other and stare back at her.

"Oh, yeah," he said, forgetting himself. "Lucy Backet, James and Martin Menchelli," he said quickly. "Jimmy, Martin, this is Lucy. She runs this place. Patrick's her son."

The boys appeared to relax slowly, but Lucy stared, wide-eyed.

"Yeah, they're your ghosts," Dean said off-hand, looking back at the room.

"What?" she whispered. The boys nodded at her.

"These are the little pranksters that spook your guests," Dean said. "They've been doing it for years."

"Are they… going to hurt us?" she breathed.

James and Martin looked at each other for a long moment, then abruptly started to laugh silently.

"Not these two. But Richard might," Dean allowed.

"Richard…" She turned quickly, putting a hand on Dean's arm. "But he died! He's dead! How can he be here?"

"He's… not happy," Dean managed. "And unhappy spirits stick around. Trust me, very soon he'll be gone for good."

"How do you know that?" she asked.

Dean didn't answer. He lifted, aimed and fired the shotgun. Lucy screamed and jumped. Martin reached over and patted her shoulder as Dean ignored them all, watching the room. She looked at Martin, then tried a small smile.

"Oh Dean?" came a silky voice.

Dean's eyes narrowed as he tried to follow where the noise was coming from. "Whut?"

"Sam forgot the map. He'll never find me over there," Richard chuckled.

"Don't be so sure," Dean snapped, firing again.

* * *

_**Got to get this posted ASAP - have to move in, er, 44 hours ("and counting!") and still not fully boxed up yet. Don't know when the net connection will be installed at my new place, neither...**_


	11. Chapter 11

**ELEVEN**

"Goddamn it!" Sam hissed, twisting in a circle and looking around him. "Why can't they put these things in date order?"

He spun round again, then huffed and hitched the duffle higher onto his shoulder, leaving the block of gravestones and heading to the next neat rectangle of markers. He sent the light hovering over the names and dates, cursing and huffing in a way that sent his Huff Quota spinning off the chart.

He gasped suddenly, spotting a familiar name and running closer.

"Got you!" he breathed vindictively. He dropped the duffle and snatched up the two parts of the shovel, snapping them together and starting to dig.

The heavens opened and down came the rain. Sam ignored it, hammering away as fast as he could to break up the surface of the neatly manicured grass.

* * *

Martin patted Dean's shoulder and a hand came into view again. He followed Martin's finger with the gun. But his finger changed direction again suddenly. Dean twisted slightly.

"How do you… how do you know all this?" Lucy asked quietly from behind him.

"I'll explain later," Dean growled.

"Oh yeah, sorry," she said quickly. She looked up. "Who left the window open?"

Dean's eyes widened and he turned quickly. He let off a shot that spread over the entire window area. There was a wisp of black dusty smoke and he sucked air in through his teeth, unhappy. He snapped open the gun and reloaded. He patted his shirt pocket and realised he was down to his last two cartridges.

"Friggin' perfect," he snapped.

"What?"

"Come on, Sam, let's have a little hustle here," he breathed to himself, closing the gun and lifting it again.

He looked around the room, watching carefully. Martin tapped and pointed. Dean moved and his finger started to squeeze the trigger.

The gun was wrenched from his hands. He gasped in surprise. The stock jerked back and smashed him in the face.

He fell from his perch against the bed, finding his face in the carpet. Something was wet on his skin. He put his hands under him, hearing thumps and bangs on the bed. He got to his knees, his vision blurry and his nose on fire.

He saw a pair of shoes in front of his hands on the carpet. Something collided with his head. He was thrown backwards, smacking heavily into the sofa and falling to the floor.

Lucy screamed. Dean scrambled to his hands and knees again. He wiped at his tearing eyes to see clearly.

"Get back on the bed!" he shouted blindly.

He wrenched himself from the floor. He spotted a blurry image of the shotgun and staggered to it. He snatched it up and swung it round, about to fire. His eyes still flush with water, he blinked and raised a hand to dash them clear. He wiped the back of it across his nose. It came back covered in blood.

"Bon!" Lucy called suddenly. Dean looked round to the window instinctively.

And poor James, hanging from his arms, clamped firmly by Richard.

* * *

Sam scrambled out of the hole in the steadily pounding rain. He grabbed the duffle and yanked it toward him. It tumbled over the side and into the slick wet hole to his feet. He cursed and snatched it up, pulling out the salt. He upended the entire bag over the prone remains. Snatching up the accelerant, he doused all the of the newly uncovered bones. He tried not to breathe in the fumes as he emptied the entire bottle over the still-juicy wet skeleton and patches of clothes.

He threw the bottle down and scrabbled for the matches. He ripped open the matchbook and found it soaked through.

"No!" he fumed, tossing it to one side. He patted his pockets and looked through the duffle wildly. "Cigarette lighter!" he gasped.

He climbed out of the hole and ran for the road – and the Impala.

* * *

"Let him go!" Dean roared at Richard. But he simply laughed at him.

"Why do you care? Aren't you supposed to be finding and _killing_ spirits?" he sneered. "Why are these two so special?"

"Keep talking, I'll blow your friggin' head off!" Dean growled.

"Through little James, here? For shame, Dean, for shame," he chuckled. He lifted James a little higher, shaking slightly. "Is this cos you sent their dad to the Other Side, even though you had no evidence he had ever done anything?" he grinned.

"Shut up!" Dean snapped.

"Or because you're getting soft as you get old?" He stepped backwards, toward the window. "I think me and James here are going to take a stroll. Only," he added, suddenly turning obsequiously apologetic, "I don't think _he's_ going to be coming back."

He ducked back toward the window. Dean rushed forwards, dropping the shotgun. He pulled the Colt 1911 and had the safety off and the hammer cocked before he leant on the window frame. He pushed his head and shoulders out of the window.

The rain whipped in and pelted at his sore face. The cold wind whistled round his ears and reminded him he had no heavy shirt or jacket.

Richard hovered, watching in delight.

"Tell you what would be more fun - you in his place!" he said suddenly. He released James instantly.

The boy appeared to float for a second. Then he began to drop.

"Jimmy!" Dean roared into the rain. "Find Martin! Find your brother!"

He leaned over further, trying to make out shapes and perhaps a boy somewhere in the twenty-four storeys below the window.

There was a scream from behind him. "Bon!" Lucy shouted.

He turned quickly. Richard was behind him. He reached up and clutched at Dean's throat, squeezing easily.

"I'm certainly going to get one of you tonight," the spirit snarled.

He pushed him toward the open window.

* * *

Sam wanged open the door of the Impala, leaning over and pressing at the cigarette lighter. It pinged out again and he huffed. He climbed over the seat, pushing it in firmly. It popped right back out and he growled something unkind about Chevrolet.

Then he gasped, cursed himself, and reached into his pocket for the keys. He yanked them out and rammed the ignition key in the barrel, turning it one notch. He pressed the cigarette lighter in again. It stayed in this time, starting to heat.

He turned and opened the glovebox hurriedly, searching through for paper. He found his notebook and ripped out a handful of pages, not caring what had been on them.

He looked back at the lighter and tutted at it.

"Come on, come on, come on!" he chanted impatiently. He stole a glance at his watch.

The lighter popped out suddenly and shot across the footwell.

"No!" he cried angrily.

He forced himself downwards to find it glowing, red-hot, button end up. He glimpsed the moment tomorrow afternoon when Dean would discover the round melted impression in the carpet. He pushed the thought aside, snatching it up and swearing and cursing as the hot end swept over every single finger before he managed to get a hold of the button end.

He pushed himself upright and out of the car. He slammed the door and took off running.

* * *

"There we go," Richard said cheerfully. He pushed Dean over the window ledge.

Stuck with the wooden ledge jammed painfully right in the small of his back, Dean fought for breath. Richard leaned over into his face.

"You should never have tried to help these little boys. Then you wouldn't have torched their father and made all this possible," he leered.

"He was – was stopping you?" Dean managed, spitting for breath. He clutched at the window frame.

"He was one really, really vengeful guy," Richard sneered. "He had miles on me. The only thing that kept him sane was having to look after his boys."

Dean struggled to breathe. Speech was impossible.

"That's right – and you torched him. Oh Dean, what would your father say now?"

But Dean's splutter was an attempt at a smile. Richard had a half-second to be confused before there was a shot.

He wisped into thin, black tainted air. Dean pushed himself back onto the safe side of the ledge, sliding down the inside of the wall slowly to land on his arse with a thump.

"Something like that, you evil bastard," he coughed, lifting his Colt and looking at it in appreciation of a job well done.

He let it fall into his lap and looked over at the bed, finding James and Martin clutching at each other. Lucy had her knees up to her chin, her arms round them securely, staring into space.

He looked down at the nickel-plated gun in his hand, then shook his head and pushed the safety back on. He nursed his throat and got his breath back gratefully.

Martin waved suddenly to catch his attention. He looked up at him to find the boy pointing wildly to the window.

Dean put his hand up behind him to the window ledge to pull himself up.

Something snatched at his wrist and yanked. He fumbled the gun and it fell to the carpet. He was dragged over the ledge easily, out into the rain.

He hung from his hand, looking down between his dangling boots and noticing that twenty-four storeys looked higher from up there.

"This is every shade of not good," he managed, swallowing abject fear at the sight of the fatal tarmac far below his swaying feet. Richard laughed at his load's reaction, shaking his wrist slightly. Dean looked up at him quickly with a murderous jut to his chin.

"Funny, don't you think, that your life is now in my hands?" he laughed.

Dean looked down again, then up at the laughing spirit and his apparent pre-occupation with torturing the dangling Winchester.

"Whatever you do, Sammy, _don't torch him while he's holding me up!_" Dean called desperately into the rain.

* * *

Sam attempted to skid to a halt but only succeeded in slipping over onto his side in the mud. He slid over the side of the dug-out grave and landed in a heap on the bones. He swore fluently as he retrieved the hot cigarette lighter and pulled the paper from inside his jacket.

He blew on the lighter, pressing the hot end to the paper. It began to smoke and he blew on it gently. He tried to lift his jacket over the top to stop the rain getting in. The paper flared up suddenly.

He jerked his head back and then carefully crouched to the bones, slick with lighter fluid and smelling so strongly he thought he was going to pass out on the fumes. He touched the swiftly burning paper to the underside of a leg, watching the flames lick up round the dirty, damp remains.

The flames caught just as the paper tried to burn his fingers. He dropped it into the hole under the pelvis, watching the fire start to spread around the hip. He held his jacket over his head and over the burning area, desperate for it to stay alight.

It flared and ran down the femur. He jumped out of the way, turning and scrambling out of the grave as fast as his trainers could scale the muddy banks.

He turned and looked down, blowing out a big huff of satisfaction.

"Goodbye Richard Backet," he sighed, spent. "And good riddance."

* * *

_**My apologies for this being unformatted before, i.e. no end of scene lines or italics. I'm damn sure I did all that before I put it up last time, but apparently it didn't take. Hope this one behaves itself.**_


	12. Chapter 12

**TWELVE**

Dean felt Richard's grip on his wrist weaken with a jolt. He looked up and saw him starting to lighten in strange little patches across his face and chest.

"Aw shiiiii-iiiit!" he blurted, eyes widening in fear. He didn't waste time looking down. Instead he reached blindly for the window ledge with his free hand.

"No! How dare you!" Richard managed. His feet began to peel and burn like vintage film stock over a light bulb. "How _dare_ you!"

Dean swung his feet and took advantage of the weight of his boots. He flew back and swung harder. His fingers barely touched the ledge as he swung back out.

"No! I'll find you two!" Richard howled into the wind and rain. "I'll wait for you two! Your time will come! I'll be waiting for you!"

Dean swung himself with a grunt of effort. His hand connected with the ledge. He clutched at it. He felt heat and movement at his back. He ignored everything but the ledge. His right wrist came free of Richard's grip. He felt himself start to drop.

He pulled desperately at the ledge with his left hand. He swung down heavily. He smashed headlong into the wall directly underneath the window. It nearly dislodged his fingers but he swung his right hand up and grabbed.

He hung onto the outside of the window ledge, gasping for breath, making a conscious effort not to look down.

"Way to go, Sammy," he panted, unsure whether he was relieved or angry.

He gasped in air for a long minute, closing his eyes and making sure he did not think about the twenty-four storeys below him. He was conscious only of the biting wind howling round his ears, the drizzle spattering over the left side of his face, the weight pulling on his arms.

And his fingers, screaming for mercy, clutching at the stone ledge even though their owner had clearly forgotten they were not designed for such a task.

Dean opened his eyes and sniffed a runny nose, really not interested if it were the result of rain or grievous bodily harm. He began to haul himself up over the ledge laboriously. He pulled himself up halfway, leaning through the window and finding it curtailed his ability to breathe admirably.

He made himself let go of the stone, instead squirming over the ledge and reaching for the safety of the carpet. He put his hand out for the stable surface but his sense of spatial orientation was temporarily skewed and he missed.

Instead his hand swept through thin air and he simply tumbled though the window. He rolled onto the carpet with a thump and a grunt that sounded extra loud to his ears.

He put his hands under him to get up but found he could hardly breathe. Realising he'd winded himself he lay back and concentrated on not bringing up the last thing he could remember eating. Black spots danced in front of his eyes and he closed them, letting his hands fall to his chest and just riding out the ringing in his head.

It was silent for an eternity that seemed way too short to him, before a familiar ringtone blared a classic guitar strain across the room.

"No rest for the wicked," he protested, rolling himself to his hands and knees. He felt a hand on his back. A moment of desperate panic overtook him and he forced his bruised neck to look up hastily.

But it was only Lucy, holding out his phone. "Here," she said timidly.

He put a hand up and took it, still on his hands and knees, and flicked it open hurriedly.

"Dean!" came Sam's voice immediately.

"You got him," he managed, shifting onto his back again gratefully.

"Sure?"

"Torched," he confirmed, wiping his free hand over his face.

"Good. I was worried," he grinned.

"About me? You should know better," Dean breathed.

"Well you know. Had a funny feeling you were out of your depth," Sam added uneasily.

Dean pulled the phone from his face, looked at it in trepidation, and then put it back to his face.

"Never," he said convincingly. "Trust me."

"Think I might do that," Sam chuckled.

"Good boy."

"I'm on the way back. Hold the fort," Sam grinned, and the line was cut.

Dean closed the phone and let it and his hand fall to his chest. He looked up at Lucy, watching him with a very worried expression.

"Is he gone for good this time?" she whispered.

"Oh yeah," he said confidently. He twisted his head around to look around the room, then looked back up at her. "You got anything to drink?" he added politely, using his most innocent smile.

"You took the words right out of my mouth," she nodded.

She went to the other side of the room and Dean pushed himself to his feet slowly. He retrieved his fallen Colt and made sure the safety was on, tossing it to the bed. He looked up at the sound of the fridge opening.

"Whisky or brandy?" Lucy called over.

"Whatever floats your boat," he shrugged. "Don't think it makes much difference right now."

She nodded and pulled out a mini-bar bottle of whisky, twisting off the top quickly. She looked around, couldn't see a glass within a handy distance, and simply took a long swig straight from the bottle.

She turned and looked at Dean guiltily, then at the bottle in her hands.

"Oops," she said quietly.

"Lucy," he said grandly with a wide smile, taking the the small bottle from her gratefully, "if there's one thing I've learnt during my stay here this weekend, it's that there ain't nothing I won't put in my mouth."

She blinked, thought about it, and then shook her head, deciding that she really did _not_ want to know. She watched him take three good swigs from the bottle before he hissed appreciatively. He held it out to her. She took the bottle from him again and pulled another few sips.

"Atta girl," he nodded, turning to the room with a sniff. "Martin? Jimmy?" he called, looking around. Silence. "C'mon guys, where are you?" he called.

There was no answer, and he looked around slowly, a look of regret or perhaps worry flitting across his face.

"The two boys?" she asked timidly. He still studied the room.

"Yeah. They should be fine, but then, they should be _here_, too," he said nervously.

He turned and went to his duffle, pulling out the EMF meter and snapping it on, waving it around the room slowly.

"Nothing," he muttered unhappily. "C'mon you two," he breathed, worried. There were two faint spikes, close together, and Dean looked down at the meter in his hand. He let out a slight huff.

"What is it?" she asked quickly. "Are they alright?"

"Seem to be," he allowed, watching the readings on the meter die away again. "They were here just now - or at least, close by."

"So where are they now?" she asked.

"Who knows," Dean managed, and he almost looked sad. He turned off the silent meter and tossed it back at his bag.

She looked at him for a long moment, watching him survey the room with understandable weariness.

"Bon," she said eventually. He looked at her. She opened her mouth but didn't know what to say. He put a hand up, waving dismissively as he backed away to the bed.

"Everyone has trouble with this stuff at first," he said warmly, collapsing back onto the bed and leaning his elbows on his knees.

"At first?" she dared.

He just looked at her, and she crossed to the sofa, sitting down with a resounding flump. Dean closed weary eyes, sighed long and hard, and wiped at his face slowly. It stung and he hissed, bringing his hand away to find a little blood smeared over his fingers.

"Every damn time," he sighed. He wiped at his nose with the back of his hand, found it dry, and let himself fall over onto his back.

Lucy just stared round the room, eyes wide, as she turned it over in her mind. The room was silent, the minutes ticking away as they each dealt with the evening as best they could.

There was a knock at the door and Lucy jumped. She looked at the door. Dean put a hand out to stop her from moving.

"Who is it?" he called out warily.

"It's me – Patrick," he called. "Is my mom in there with you?"

"Oh! Patrick!" she gasped, looking at Dean. "I told him to watch the desk while I came to complain about bangs from your room!"

"Nothing changes," Dean quipped, pushing himself up off the bed and going to the door to the hotel room. He opened it slowly. "Hey there," he said genially. "She's here – come in."

Patrick cast him a fearful look before sidling in and keeping his distance from him. He spotted his mother and shuffled over rather quickly.

"Patrick, come here," she called, grabbing him in a hug. "Oh my, I'm so glad to see you," she breathed into his shoulder.

"You ok, Mom?" he asked, confused. He looked around the room, taking in the scattered furniture, the multiple peppered shots in walls and doors, simply shaking his head. "What the hell happened in here?"

"Language," she tutted, pulling him away smartly. "Mr Scott here just saved us from a very bad situation."

Patrick looked at Dean guiltily. "He did?"

"He did. Oh Bon, thank you," she sniffed.

"You say that now. You haven't seen the repair bill for the room," he smiled easily. She let herself smile.

"Whatever it turns out to be, believe me, it's on the hotel," she nodded. "So… what happens now?" she asked. "I mean… that was… that was…"

"Bizarre?" Dean offered with a smile. He looked around the room slowly. "Certainly not the best evening I've spent in a hotel."

"I'm so sorry about all of this," she said sadly. "I really am."

"Oh trust me, it's not your fault," he said. "Not at all."

They looked up as they heard a keycard in the door. The door swung open and Sam walked in, dripping with rain.

"Well you look like crap," he said cheerfully to his older brother. Dean eyed him with a warning before wiping at his nose gingerly.

"Yeah well, some of us were dealing with angry spirits," he replied. "You got back quick."

"Yeah - you might want to check the tyres on your baby, I think the front ones are almost down to slicks," he said pointedly, and Dean's jaw stuck out.

"Tell me you didn't hit any--"

"Relax Dean, I _didn't_ hit anything. She's fine - just a little shaken from high speeds in the wet. I'm sure once you've washed and polished her she'll feel like the whole night never happened," he teased.

Dean just pouted at him, but Sam ignored him, looking round the room. "Where are the boys?" he asked innocently.

Dean shrugged. "You got me, man, they're not answering. They seem to be around somewhere," he added, avoiding Sam's searing gaze. "You think they're a little freaked out?"

"Find them and ask," he offered.

"Martin? Jimmy?" Dean called. "Come on, quit playing around. We need to know you're alright."

He went to his duffle, picking up the EMF meter and switching it back on. He swung it round, Patrick and Lucy watching.

"What _is_ that?" Patrick asked, fascinated. He watched as the meter spiked as Dean waved it in the general direction of the bathroom. Dean cast a look at Sam before he walked over to the bathroom door.

He knocked lightly, turning off the meter.

"Boys?" he called. "It's just us and Lucy. And Patrick – you know Patrick, right?"

The door opened a crack and Martin looked out. He closed the door again and it was silent.

"Who's that?" Patrick asked, lost. Dean sighed and leaned on the doorjamb, knocking again softly.

"Martin? Sam got him. He ain't coming back for you," he said quietly. "I promise. Now are you gonna come out, or am I gonna come in?"

The door opened slowly, just an inch. Dean folded his arms and looked at the pair of eyes. He raised his eyebrows expectantly and Martin pulled the door open.

"Come on out of there, son. It's alright," he said confidently.

Sam shifted his feet, uncomfortable with just how much his older brother suddenly reminded him of their father.

Martin opened the door a little wider and shuffled out. He looked at everyone, stopping and backing into Dean as he spotted Patrick and Lucy watching him with wide eyes.

"So are you going to explain who these boys are?" she gasped. "I mean… You said they're ghosts too, right?"

"His name's Martin. He's nine. His younger brother's around here somewhere, too. He's James," Sam said gently.

"But who are they?" she demanded, confused. "Why are they in your room?"

Martin folded his arms, looking disturbingly like Dean, who noticed and let his arms drop.

"This is _their_ room," he said pointedly. "They died here in 1986."

Lucy looked again at Martin for a long moment, then turned and looked at Patrick. "You _said_ you'd seen ghosts. I thought you were just led by all those newspaper stories," she whispered. "I'm so sorry, Patrick."

"'S ok," he managed, embarrassed.

"So… did they have anything to do with…" She took a deep breath. "With Richard making people jump?" she asked. Patrick eyed her at the mention of his deceased father.

But Martin stomped his foot angrily. Dean put a heavy hand on his shoulder.

"Absolutely no," he said for the small boy, who turned and looked up at him, nodding in a very vindicated manner. Dean patted his shoulder, then folded his arms again. Martin walked over to the sofa suddenly, going to Sam's duffle and opening it. Sam simply watched, surprised.

Martin pulled out the 8-Ball, walking back and handing it out to Patrick.

"Hey, that's mine," he said, surprised. He took it slowly, eyeing Martin fearfully.

"Yours?" Sam asked.

"Yeah – Dad gave it me. Said he'd had to repair it, but he wanted me to have it," Patrick said. Sam and Dean exchanged a glance.

"Well, looks like our work here is done," Dean said wearily. "The important thing is, Sam's going to explain all of this, and I'm going to get some sleep."

"Sleep?" Lucy prompted. "Sleep? After all we've seen tonight? After all you two have apparently done without anyone noticing? You're just going to sleep?"

"Damn straight," Dean yawned.

"How can you sleep right now?" she demanded, aghast. "With ghosts and boys and hanging from windows and – and things?"

"It's my job," he shrugged.

"Your _job_?"

"Another thing Sam will explain."

"And the 'Sam' bit, too?" Patrick put in. They looked at Sam, who raised his hands and nodded.

"Everything, I promise," he said.

"Then Patrick – here," Lucy said, fishing in her pocket for a big ring of keys. She thrust them at her son. "Go to our room and open the liquor cabinet. Get the gin. The big bottle."

Patrick blinked. "O-k," he managed, before turning and scooting off.

Sam smiled apologetically. Then he told her to sit. He looked at Dean, already clomping his way to the large bed.

"Hey, after this little bit of damage limitation?" he called at him.

"Whut?" he managed, rubbing at his gritty, exhausted eyes.

"Well… there's something I don't understand."

"Later, Sam, later," Dean managed before he let himself fall to the bed, only really half-hoping it was still there.


	13. Chapter 13

**THIRTEEN**

"So another weekend, another few spirits toasted," Dean said slowly past the bacon sandwich in his mouth, zipping up his duffle.

"Yeah. Although we're really getting sloppy at this – we got it wrong twice, dude," Sam pointed out, looking round the room to make sure he hadn't left anything. Dean stuffed the rest of his breakfast in his mouth and nodded.

"Hey – wait," Sam said quickly, and Dean looked at him.

"Whut?" he managed, with a mouth full of bread, sauce and crunchy bacon.

"You've got something round your mouth," he said helpfully. Dean put a hand up and wiped at the side of his mouth carefully, feeling the bristles under his fingers. "No – the other side," Sam said. Dean frowned and wiped that side too. "No, you missed it," Sam tutted. Dean wiped all of his mouth, then licked his upper lip suspiciously. "No, dude – look, it's all over," Sam huffed. Dean sniffed, casting Sam a dubious look before licking his bottom lip and tasting nothing overtly breakfasty. "Oh no, you know what? My mistake – I think that's supposed to be _beard_," Sam said snidely.

Dean let his hand drop, swallowing his food before pointing at him. "I've said it before and I'll say it again – you're just jealous," he smiled, but it was a little malicious.

"Jealous of what? Looking like I live on the road?" Sam shot back.

"Hey, I _do_ live on the road," Dean admitted, and Sam's own attempt at humour left him cold. "Actually, I kinda like it," he added, oblivious of Sam's sudden chill. He stroked at the goatee slowly, grinning. "What do you reckon? Worth keeping?"

"Yeah," Sam said, making himself appear cheerful, "if you're tired of chasing girls off with a stick."

"Them who can't, bitch about it," Dean smirked, picking up his duffle. Sam noticed him look around surreptitiously, dropping the duffle to the bed again. He sniffed to himself, looked around as if he really didn't want to, then picked up the duffle again slowly.

"What?" Sam asked, intrigued. "You lose something?"

"No," Dean admitted, turning to go, "just… just would have been nice to see the boys before we left."

"Yeah well. They seemed like they'd really had enough of all this last night. Maybe they just didn't want to come back till we'd gone," Sam shrugged. He watched his brother's face fall slightly.

"Yeah. Maybe," he managed easily, but to Sam's experienced eye he looked just a shade disappointed. "Well, come on then."

He made for the door, but Sam, behind him, noticed his head turn left and right slightly as he got there. He stopped and looked around the room slowly, then turned back to find his brother with his hand on the doorknob, but not turning it.

"They're not coming, Dean," he said kindly. "Let's just leave them to their old room again."

"Yeah," Dean muttered, turning the handle. But suddenly he felt a tug on his jeans pocket. He let go of the handle, leaving the door closed as he turned around.

Martin and James stood just behind Sam, hand in hand, watching them.

Sam looked at Dean, confused as to why he was looking past him. He realised invisible hands must have been at work and turned to see them stood there too. He let his duffle drop from his shoulder.

"Hey," he said with a smile. "Two at once. Come to see us off?"

Martin nodded and nudged James. James huffed, making Dean smile, before walking up to Sam and sticking his hand out. Sam crouched down and put his hand out too, shaking James' slowly. He straightened again to watch James turn and look at Dean. He stuck his hand out to shake, but Dean slapped it sideways instead. James grinned and raced back to stand slightly behind his older brother.

Martin looked at Sam and nodded. His mouth clearly rounded the words '_thank you'_, and Sam grinned.

"You're welcome," he said warmly. Dean turned a bemused look on Sam before Martin walked up and poked his leg. He looked down at him.

"Something you want to say, mini dude?" he asked with a smile.

Martin motioned him down and Dean crouched. Martin put his hand to his ear and apparently whispered something. Dean looked at him, then shook his head with a crafty smile.

"Naw, everyone knows you don't shake 'em – you get air bubbles in the water and then the Magic 8-Ball ain't so magic any more," he grinned. "Don't worry about it, squirt. What does Patrick know anyway? His mom probably had to teach him how to do it right in the first place."

Sam's smile froze as the words seemed to echo round his head.

He forgot the room in front of him and instead remembered standing in some borrowed bathroom, a much younger but no less cocky Dean handing him a razor and telling him not to slice his own head off with it. His older brother – younger, thinner, his face more angular, but no less Dean-ish in his approach, saying the words '_Don't worry about it, squirt. What does the old man know, anyway? Mom probably had to teach him how to do it right in the first place_'.

Dean got in a high five with the boy before standing again. He looked back at Sam, about to make a move for the door. But the look on Sam's face stopped him.

"Whut?" he asked, curious as to the reason for his younger brother's slightly hurt, slightly haunted look. Sam shook himself abruptly.

"Uhh – nothing," he said quickly. "We should – ah – we should get going."

"Yeah." Dean turned back to the two boys, still standing and watching them. "Well, be good. Look out for each other or we'll be back." He looked at Martin. "Look after your little brother, boy," he winked.

Sam stared, multiple images of a stern John Winchester overlapping Dean's voice in his head. He closed his eyes quickly, shaking his head and opening them again.

Martin simply waved, Jimmy lifting a hand and wiggling his fingers. Dean put a hand up, turning and walking to the door. Sam smiled at them, trying to make it look convincing. Something told him it was coming out apologetic. The boys waved again, and Sam nodded. He followed his brother to the door quickly.

As the door closed behind them, Sam heard the unmistakable sound of the TV turning on. He stopped and opened it again, poking his head back round the door.

He saw two small boys, jockeying for position on the sofa, flicking through channels on the TV. It stopped on Cartoon Network, and Sam couldn't help but grin at the sight of _ThunderCats_ starting up. He shook his head slightly and closed the door.

He turned and found Dean already on his way to the lifts. He jogged to catch him up, and his older brother looked round to find him abreast at last.

"So did you figure out what was keeping the boys here, even after they were cremated, Doctor Quincy?" Dean asked.

"Ah… yeah, absolutely," Sam nodded confidently. "Well… kinda. Actually…? No. But I have a working theory," he added lamely.

"And that is?"

"That is… that the cremation records were bogus? Or someone took the money and didn't do the job?" he hazarded, wincing at his own words.

Dean chuckled, shaking his head.

"You really do astound me, Sammy," he said with relish, and Sam realised his brother was about to get the drop on him.

"Why? What did you find?" he asked wearily.

"Did you see the photograph in our room?" he asked, looking up at him for a moment.

"No, sorry, I was out digging up bones and setting fire to them," Sam said clearly, and Dean smirked.

"Like it wasn't your turn? Anyway, if you'd had time, you'd have seen the picture," he allowed.

"Come on then, spill," Sam sighed, impatient. Dean raised an eyebrow at him.

"It was of the two boys and their parents. It was like real small, I'm not surprised you didn't see it. Anyway, guess what little Jimmy had in his hands?"

"A Lion-O action figure," Sam replied sarcastically.

"Nope," Dean grinned, enjoying the feeling of knowledge having the power of torture.

"Mumm-Ra?"

"No," he chuckled.

"Cheetara?"

"No, man. A Magic 8-Ball."

"But that was Richard's," Sam pointed out. "You said it was made by the wrong toy company, it was too recent to be the boys'."

"Yeah, and Patrick said Richard had to fix the one he gave to him. So perhaps he used--"

"--used the answer disc or some random part from Jimmy's to repair his own before he gave it to Patrick," Sam interrupted. "Wow. You reckon that's why we couldn't hear the boys talking? Cos like, it wasn't the whole original 8-Ball?"

"Maybe," Dean shrugged. "Who knows, man. Who knows." He paused to think as they carried on walking to the lifts. "Alright, seriously, Sammy," he said suddenly, scratching at his gingery-blonde beard, "do I keep it or shave it off?"

Sam grinned, putting a hand on his shoulder. "I think – shave it off," he teased.

"No way! I wanna keep it!"

"Shave it off, you look ridiculous."

"Says you!"

"Shave it!"

"I'll shave _you_ next time you fall asleep in the car!"

"Then I'll take off both your eyebrows."

"Well then I'll take off both your eyebrows _and_ your precious love-handles," Dean shot back with a grin.

"My what?"

"These, ass-hat," he chuckled, putting a hand up and tugging at one of Sam's sideburns.

"Ow!" He pulled his head free. "Do I want to know why they're called—"

"And that's precisely why you don't need 'em," Dean said, making a show of sighing in disappointment.

Sam punched lightly at his shoulder and they stopped at the lifts, Dean pressing the button.

"You sure we should just leave them here?" Sam asked him seriously.

Dean avoided his gaze. "Yeah, man. What's the worse they could do, put salt in someone's coffee? Come on," he scoffed.

"And what if, one day, they've been here so long they turn bad?" Sam asked softly. Now Dean looked at him, and Sam got the feeling he'd already thought about it and made plans.

"Then we'll come back," he said simply.

Sam grinned. "And I thought you'd gone soft on them."

"Yeah right," Dean snorted indignantly.

"Oh yeah? So what was with all the '_be good boys_'?" Sam pressed, making the last few words boom round the corridor.

"Shut up," Dean said dismissively.

"Make me," Sam grinned childishly.

"Dumbass."

"Beardy Man."

"Girl."

"Captain Bandy-legs."

"Lanky streak of piss!"

"N'Sync fan!"

"Take that back!" Dean dared, almost angry.

"Make me!" Sam chuckled.

Dean pushed him half-heartedly in jest. But Sam pushed him back. Duffles fell to the carpet and they shoved and grabbed at each other roughly.

The lift pinged and they froze. The doors opened and they stared at the elderly couple, watching them in disapproval.

"Like children," the old lady tutted, shaking her head and pushing past them. The husband followed as the boys shoved each other away and pulled their shirts straight, picking up the duffles again. Dean jammed his boot in the doors to stop them closing again, and they got in.

Sam pressed the ground floor button. "Jerk," he hissed, suppressing a grin.

They made it down twenty-five floors before Dean put his free fist up to his face, covering a single politely coughed word.

"_Bitch_."

**THE END**

* * *

**_So there we go - hope it was worth waiting for! Thanks to everyone for following this all the way through, and I hope it tickled a few funny bones - and perhaps the odd angsty one. Thanks everyone!_**


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